THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


»w 

*•**/ 


TROOPER  TALES 

A  SERIES  OF  SKETCHES 

OF 

The    Real  American   Private   Soldier 


BY 

WILL  LEVINGTON  COMFORT 


NEW  YORK 

STREET  &  SMITH,   PUBLISHERS 
238  WILLIAM  STREET 


Copyright, 

1899, 
STREET  &  SMITH. 


PS 


tlje  great  outer  wall  of  a  great  rjation, 
THE  REGULAR  ARMY  MAN, 

who  does  what  he  is  told,  silently,  ingloriously, 

surely,  this  volume  of  cavalry  sketches 

is  dedicated  by  one  who   lingered 

with  you  for  a  little  while,  and 

knows,  therefore,  how 

great  you  are. 


715763 


CONTENTS. 


PACB 

The  New  Recruit  in  the    Black  Cavalry.    .         .  11 

The  Silent  Trooper 22 

The   Degeneration  of  Caddie 43 

Toreador  the  Game  One.           ....  55 

The  Wooing  of  Beuito. 69 

Two  Women  and  a  Soldier 81 

Red  Brennan  of  the  Seventh 95 

A  Soldier  of  Misfortune.           .        .        ••'...  107 

Shadow  and  the  Cherub 121 

Back  to  San  Anton'. 133 

The  Voice  in  the  Fourth  Cell 145 

The  Good  Which  Was  in  Him.        .         .        .  159 

The  Aberration  of  Private  Brown.        .         .         .  173 

The  Last  Cell  to  the  Right 187 

The  Fever's  Fifth  Man 201 

The  Story  of  a  Cavalry  Horse.         .        .        .  211 

A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 225 


INTRODUCTION. 

Civilians  write  army  stories.  Commissioned  officers 
write  army  stories.  Enlisted  men  laugh  at  the  former 
because  the  author  is  remote  and  they  cannot  bruise 
him.  Had  they  the  power  to  lure  the  civilian  into  their 
midst  they  would  shortly  drill  him  full  of  real  army  col 
oring,  and  his  effusions  would  be  shrunken  'with  lean, 
beautiful  wisdom  ever  after.  But,  since  he  keeps  his  per 
sonality  removed,  the  soldiers  can  only  laugh. 

The  literary  efforts  of  commissioned  officers  are  dis 
cussed  in  whispers  by  the  enlisted  men,  because  they  are 
only  enlisted  men,  while  the  commissioned  officers  are 
old  and  young  gods,  who  become  very  masterful  beings 
when  criticised  audibly  by  men  from  the  ranks. 

But  no  one  can  deny  that  the  army  stories  of  commis 
sioned  officers  are  full  of  officers'  instinct,  and  officers' 
fleckless  uniforms,  and  clubs,  and  ladies.  The  enlisted 
men  who  emerge  upon  these  idyllic  pages  are  sort  of 
baneful  and  temporary  necessities,  as  are  warts.  There 
are  orderlies  with  square  shoulders  and  brick  faces,  whose 
vocabularies  consist  of  "Yes,  sir,"  and  "No,  sir,"  uttered 
in  disfigured  English.  In  the  stories  of  commissioned 
officers  the  enlisted  man  is  a  thing  for  duty,  not  for  speech 
— a  thing  to  fight  if  necessary,  not  to  think — an  animal 
whose  pastimes  are  cards,  canteens  and  colored  ladies — 


viii  INTRODUCTION. 

whose  realm  does  not  embrace  an  aptness  in  the  softer 
arts.  In  short/ he  is  an  atom  of  no  consequence. 

I  realize  that,  in  writing  thus,  I  hurl  from  me  all  dreams 
of  ever  being  a  private  soldier  again — at  least,  under  the 
name  I  used  in  my  last  enlistment.  It  is  pathetic  for  a 
writer  who  might  be  a  soldier  to  starve  just  because  he  is 
frank. 

The  army  stories  which  civilians  write  have  none  of  this 
ungovernable  officer's  instinct.  Corporals  and  colonels 
become  chummy  in  such  tales.  A  trooper  and  a  troop 
commander  wax  convivial  together  at  the  canteen.  And 
that  is  why  enlisted  men  who  read  all  army  stories  grin 
unfeelingly. 

The  young  man  who  scans  this  volume  of  cavalry 
stories  and  enlists  afterward  will  probably  make  a  good 
soldier,  because  he  must  be  a  very  reckless  young  man. 
The  enclosed  choice  cuts  of  wisdom  were  drilled  and 
pounded  into  the  author,  and  the  wisdom  which  leaves 
tooth  marks  behind  is  not  superficial. 

And  yet  the  man  does  not  exist  who  has  once  soldiered 
who  does  not  yearn  sometimes  to  again  be  a  blue  atom  in 
the  great  blue  mass  which  makes  the  backbone  of  Uncle 
Sam's  fighting  bottom — when  it  comes  to  a  show  down. 

The  cactus  and  alkali  of  the  Southwest  blows  about  in 
a  couple  of  these  yarns,  because  I  "soldiered"  there.  The 
flies  and  fever  of  a  Southern  army  camp  crawl  about  in 
a  couple  of  others  because  I  "soldiered"  there.  A  num 
ber  of  the  yarns  are  full  of  the  groans  and  drug  odors  of 
an  army  hospital,  because  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  get 


INTRODUCTION.  ix 

out  of  there  alive.  Some  of  the  stories  are  spattered  with 
the  mud  of  Porto  Rican  hills,  and  are  dark  brown  from  the 
grisly  pressure  of  Cuban  sunshine — I  left  friends  (and  I 
hope  no  debts)  in  both  places.  Only  a  few  others  re 
main.  These  are  yellow  with  guard-house  coloring,  be 
cause  I  "soldiered" — well,  all  good  soldiers  have  served 
time. 

It  would  arouse  suspicion  to  declare  that  the  accom 
panying  yarns  are  all  true,  but  I'll  swear  that  I  tried  to 
make  pictures  of  real  American  cavalrymen  and  their 
troop  horses — and  the  pictures  were  made  mostly  be 
tween  bugle-calls.  I  have  tried  to  show  that  there  are 
men  in  the  ranks  of  Uncle  Sam's  horsemen — wild,  in 
corrigible,  splendid  men ! 

If  I  have  made  an  inglorious  fizzle  of  the  task — well,  I 
have  "soldiered"  in  vain. 

Wiw,  LEVINGTON  COMFORT. 


The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry. 


THE 

RECRUIT  IN  THE  BLACK  CAVALRY. 


What  his  real  name  was,  nobody  remembered.  It  could 
be  found  somewhere  in  the  troop-books.  Because  he  could 
sing  like  a  woman,  the  boys  in  the  Black  Horse  troop 
called  him  "Sadie."  There  are  two  colored  cavalry  regi 
ments  in  Uncle  Sam's  service.  Both  showed  what  great 
black  demons  they  could  be  last  summer  in  the  hills  back 
of  Santiago. 

A  train  containing  part  of  one  of  these  regiments 
stopped  in  Tampa  for  a  few  minutes  near  a  white  cavalry 
camp.  It  is  a  wonder  that  there  was  no  blood  shed. 
There  were  many  men  from  the  South  in  the  ranks  of  the 
white  troops.  They  were  in  a  frenzy  of  rage  because 
the  darkeys  were  under  orders  for  the  front,  while  they, 
were  being  slowly  broiled  under  the  canvas  of  a  torrid 
camp.  A  month  later,  many  of  those  same  darkey  cav 
alrymen  were  brought  back.  They  had  been  to  the  front. 
They  had  heafd  the  song  of  the  Mauser.  Many  times 
the  song  had  ended  in  a  grunt  from  some  sandy,  sticky 
throat,  and  a  hero  was  made.  The  wounded  cavalrymen 
in  the  hospital  train  were  deliriously  happy.  The  battle 
fever  fires  one's  blood  for  weeks  after. 


14       The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry. 

The  wounded  coming  back  were  received  differently. 
The  Tampan  troopers  were  browner  and  thinner  and 
uglier  than  before,  but  they  cheered  and  petted  the  heroes 
until  the  train  pulled  out  for  the  Northern  hospitals. 
After  that  the  men  who  had  never  left  the  States  became 
sullen  and  insubordinate  and  worked  themselves  into  a 
state  of  melancholy  inebriation — because  they  had  not 
been  given  a  chance  to  prove  that  they  were  soldiers  all. 
But  this  is  the  story  of  Sadie,  the  toughest,  blackest  and 
sweetest-voiced  recruit  who  ever  came  to  the  Black  Horse 
troop. 

His  beauty  was  purely  physical.  He  never  learned 
anything  about  horses  in  the  cavalry  service.  It  was  his 
instinct  to  master  a  mount.  His  limbs  had  a  most  beau 
tiful  cavalry  curve,  and  superb  saddle  muscles  bulged  out 
the  thick  trousers  of  army  blue.  His  shoulders  and  lungs 
were  equaled  only  in  power  by  his  digestion. 

Sadie  never  had  a  serious  interval.  At  least,  not  while 
he  was  a  soldier.  In  fact,  there  is  less  seriousness  in  a 
black  troop  of  cavalry  than  in  any  other  place  in  the 
world.  But  you  ought  to  see  them  on  a  skirmish  line! 
They  fight  without  nerves,  feelings,  fears.  They  know 
no  hunger,  thirst  or  pain. 

To  hear  Sadie  sing,  "Swing  a-low,  Sweet  Chariot,"  on 
the  moon-lit  deck  of  a  transport — well,  a  man  would 
think  things  which  never  occurred  to  him  before — espe 
cially  if  he  were  advancing  toward  a  hostile  coast.  And 
then  there  was  a  little  gunboat  shining  through  the  dark 
off  the  starboard  bow — a  pugnacious  little  fellow  that 


The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry.       15 

shot  toward  every  suspicious  gleam  or  shadow  on  the 
tropic  sea,  and  tried  to  darken  the  moon  with  its  search 
light.  The  great  dark  transport  steamed  southward 
through  the  gloom,  secure  in  the  protection  of  her  baby 
consort's  big  guns.  Indeed,  she  could  have  steamed 
southward  just  as  steadily  if  the  gunboat  had  perched 
itself  upon  her  hurricane  deck.  And  Sadie,  the  black  re 
cruit,  lounged  in  the  moonlight  with  the  other  cavalry 
men,  and  crooned  soft  melodies  about  dusky  maidens 
back  in  the  summer  States. 

As  a  rule,  American  soldiers,  white  and  black,  eat  three 
times  a  day.  Once  in  a  while,  however,  in  the  stress  of 
international  war,  or  an  indisposed  second  cook,  it  be 
comes  necessary  to  forego  government  straights.  A  box 
of  hard  tack  is  then  placed  in  a  convenient  place  and  the 
men  receive  orders  to  "bust"  themselves.  When  the  sun 
is  pouring  down  yellow  volleys  which  make  you  limp  and 
vicious;  when  your  tongue  shrivels  up  like  a  boiled  clam 
at  the  mere  sight  of  salt  water ;  when  the  fresh  water  is 
warm  as  a  flask  of  spirits  kept  in  a  laborer's  hip  pocket, 
and  smells  as  if  it  had  been  filtered  through  all  the 
blankets  in  the  forecastle ;  when  you  are  unloading  petu 
lant  and  plunging  cavalry  horses,  and  your  feet  are  blis 
tered  from  the  hot  decks,  and  your  blue  army  shirt  steams 
and  suffocates — well,  no  matter  if  you  are  fond  of  hard 
tack,  you  can't  choke  it  down. 

The  black  troops  landed,  while  the  little  gunboat 
watched  and  pointed  its  guns  toward  the  great,  brown, 
treeless  hills.  Somewhere  back  of  those  sun-burned,  de- 


16       The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry. 

serted  hills  there  was  a  city,  which  sported  the  wrong 
flag.  The  name  of  that  city  was  Santiago.  The  black 
cavalrymen  knew  that  they  must  hunt  the  hills  for  the 
town  and  correct  the  little  mistake  about  the  flag — more 
than  that  was  the  business  of  the  white  commissioned 
officers. 

Back  from  the  hills  the  night  shadows  crept.  The 
sun  sank  blood-red  and  vicious  across  the  water.  The 
smell  of  rain  was  in  the  air.  The  picket  lines  were 
stretched  upon  the  shore,  and  the  baggage  was  piled 
above  the  high-tide  mark.  There  had  been  an  informal 
guard-mount,  and  the  men  had  received  orders  not  to 
leave  the  camp.  They  were  refreshed  by  hot  coffee  and 
a  plunge  in  the  sea,  but  they  were  hungry  still.  A  couple 
of  vultures  trailed  across  the  sky,  but  nothing  human 
could  be  seen  by  the  troopers  on  land — nothing  save  the 
darkening  hills  and  the  watcher  out  on  the  bay.  A  rain 
cloud  skirted  the  shore-line  to  the  leftt  and  its  torrents 
pounded  the  water  and  the  hill-margins  a  half  mile  away. 
The  men  could  hear  it  coming  closer.  Those  who  watched 
from  the  gunboat  could  see  faint  red  lights  far  back  in 
the  hills. 

The  black  troopers  growled  because  they  had  to  smoke 
on  an  empty  stomach ;  they  growled  because  the  rain  put 
out  their  pipes  and  the  cook  fires,  and  because  they  would 
have  to  shiver  in  the  wet  and  cold  for  a  dozen  hours. 
Tropical  showers  do  not  last,  but  it  is  unpleasant  to  sleep 
where  they  have  been.  But  big,  black,  toughened  cav 
alrymen  can  sleep  anywhere.  It  was  very  late  when  the 


The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry.       17 

dripping  stable  guard  of  the  Black  Horse  troop  kicked 
about  among  the  puddles  and  snoring  soldiers,  inquiring 
testily : 

"Wheah's  Sadie — wheah's  dat  a-fool  niggah,  Sadie?" 

Now,  the  sentry  had  walked  his  post  up  and  down  the 
picket  line  for  two  long,  soaking  hours.  He  wanted  to 
turn  over  his  orders  to  Sadie,  and  be  relieved.  But  it 
was  evident  that  Sadie  was  not  in  camp.  To  go  about 
proclaiming  the  fact  would  mean  trouble  for  the  missing 
recruit,  therefore  the  sentry  went  back  to  his  post  and 
started  to  do  Sadie's  guard.  The  idea  that  he  was  doing 
anybody  in  particular  a  good  turn  did  not  worry  the 
sentry,  but  if  he  could  have  caught  the  black  recruit  that 
minute  something  would  have  happened. 

That  night  the  corporal  of  the  guard  did  an  unsoldierly 
thing.  He  deliberately  woke  up,  consulted  his  watch,  and 
figured  out  by  a  process  of  his  own  that  Sadie  should  be 
walking  his  post  down  on  the  picket  line.  As  Sadie  was 
a  recruit,  and  it  was  the  first  night  on  hostile  soil,  the 
corporal  deemed  it  advisable  to  find  out  if  his  man  would 
challenge  properly.  The  top  layer  of  wet  sand  under  the 
non-commissioned  officer  was  thoroughly  warmed 
through,  and  he  hated  to  let  it  cool  off,  which  was  very 
easy  as  compared  to  the  warming  process,  but  a  conscien 
tious  man  was  the  corporal.  When  he  found  the  wrong 
man  on  post,  he  was  glad  that  he  had  left  his  warm  hole 
in  the  sand. 

Not  long  after  that,  Sadie  slipped  past  the  guard  with' 
two  limp  pullets  and  a  very  noisy,  very  much  animated 


i8       The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry. 

game  chicken  in  his  arms.  The  recruit  was  panting  and 
wet,  indeed,  but  his  eyes  were  shining.  He  tethered  the 
game  one  out  in  the  bush  and  concealed  the  two  limp 
birds  under  his  blanket.  Then  he  buckled  on  his  six- 
shooter,  shouldered  his  carbine,  and  started  for  the  picket 
line  to  relieve  his  man.  It  was  not  until  Sadie  had  told 
the  much-abused  sentry  where  he  would  find  a  plump 
chicken  that  there  was  peace.  Meanwhile  the  corporal 
figured  out  the  best  way  was  to  do  his  duty  on  the  fol 
lowing  day,  and  slowly  re-warmed  his  hole  in  the  sand. 
And  the  gaudy  little  gamecock  ruffled  his  feathers  in  the 
dark  and  clucked  low,  and  scolded. 

The  result  of  the  corporal's  figuring  reached  Sadie 
about  seven  o'clock  the  following  morning.  He  was  in 
condition  to  hear  the  worst,  for  one  of  those  plump  pul 
lets  had  been  broiled  at  dawn.  There  is  the  makings  of 
a  mighty  soldier  in  a  plump  Spanish  chicken.  The  col 
ored  corporal  reported  the  absence  of  the  black  recruit 
to  the  top  sergeant,  also  black.  Among  other  things,  the 
top  sergeant  mentioned  the  affair  to  the  troop  com 
mander,  who  was  white,  and  also  very  wet  and  ugly  that 
morning.  And  so  it  came  about  that  the  black  recruit 
saw  the  troop  commander  striding  his  way  about  seven 
a.  m.  with  blood  in  his  eye  and  these  words: 

"Do  you  think  this  troop  is  out  hunting  butterflies — 
eh?  You're  under  arrest — understand?  And  I'll  court- 
martial  you  when  the  men  take  that  town  up  in  the  hills — 
understand — eh  ?" 

It  would  be  prompt  and  certain  self-destruction  for  the 


The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry.       19 

black  recruit  to  answer  back  a  white  commissioned  offi 
cer,  who  was  so  wet  and  ugly.  Sadie  was  enough  of  a 
soldier  to  know  this.  He  stood  at  attention  and  saluted 
gracefully  every  time  his  superior  officer  finished  a  sen 
tence.  After  that  he  was  placed  under  a  guard.  The 
sentry  who  had  done  an  extra  hour  for  the  recruit  the 
night  before  was  Sadie's  friend  for  life.  This  was 
brought  about  because  the  second  plump  pullet  had 
also  been  broiled  at  dawn.  The  two  friends  conferred 
together  during  the  first  hour  of  the  recruit's  incarcera 
tion. 

"Ah  mos'  cert'ny  feels  strong  dis  a-mawnin',"  observed 
the  black  boy.  "Dat  Spanish  chickum  did  mos'  glori- 
fusly  do  her  duty  by  a-me.  But  Ah  had  to  gib  obah  mah 
shootin'  ir'ns  to  dat  Gawd-a-fearin'  cawpril.  What  foh 
does  yoh  s'pose  he  dun  wanted  to  make  trouble  foh  a-me 
dat  away?  .  .  .  Is  de  troop  dun  a-gwine  up  de  hills 
dis  a-mawnin'?" 

The  prisoner  was  told  that  all  the  horses  were  to  be 
kept  back  with  one  troop  to  guard  them — that  the  others 
were  going  to  start  up  toward  the  city  as  dough  boys 
early  in  the  afternoon — that  there  were  a  half  dozen 
dough-boy  regiments  farther  up  the  hills — that  there 
were  acres  of  block  houses  and  miles  of  barb-wire  fences 
and  trenches,  and  a  whole  Spanish  army  hidden  some 
where  within  the  sound  of  cannon — that  the  American 
fleet  was  laying  off  the  coast  in  front  of  Santiago,  and 
that  the  Spanish  squadron  was  behind  Castle  Morro  in 


2O       The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry. 

the  harbor — that  there  was  going  to  be  merry  hell  up  the 
hills  which  would  last  for  a  week  or  ten  days. 

"Is — de — Black  —  Hoss — troop — dun — agwine — up— 
de — hills — or — stay  back?"  Sadie's  full  lips,  which 
formed  the  question,  were  ashy  gray.  The  words  were 
uttered  in  a  slow,  hopeless  whisper.  Here's  the  reply  to 
his  question: 

"Does  yoh  fink  for  one  moment  dat  dey's  agwine  to 
leab  de  cream  an'  skallups  ob  de  whole  niggah  regiment 
back  heah  to  shine  up  de  skates — when  de  band's  dun 
agwine  to  play  dead  marches  an'  de  variations  up  yon- 
dah?" 

The  troop  commander  was  approaching.  The  sentry 
came  to  "present  arms,"  and  the  prisoner  stood  "at  at 
tention."  Great  thoughts  were  in  the  brain  of  the  black 
recruit.  He  was  about  to  make  the  bravest  effort  of  his 
life. 

"Will  de  captain  'low  me  to  go  up  de  hills  in  de  troop 
to-day — an'  serve  mah  time  after  de  fun  am  obah,  sah  ?" 

"I'll  turn  you  over  to  the  other  troop,  where  you'll  be 
under  a  guard — that's  what  I'll  do  to  you — understand — 
eh?" 

The  sun  was  steaming  out  the  rain  from  the  troop 
commander's  blouse,  but  he  was  wet  and  ugly  still.  Sadie 
saluted  in  graceful  silence,  and  choked  down  a  great,  dry 
lump  in  his  throat.  After  the  captain  was  out  of  earshot, 
the  black  recruit  said  to  his  friend : 

"Las'  night  Ah  dun  larieted  mah  HI*  game  chickum  out 
in  the  bresh.  He  wah  a-crowin'  up  in  de  hills,  when  Ah 


The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry.       21 

heard  him.  Ah  knowed  he  wah  a  game  chickum  'cos  he 
dun  crowed  in  de  night  time.  You  bring  him  heah  to 
a-me.  I  wants  dat  HI'  game  chickum.  He  dun  make  me 
lose  de  onliest  chance  in  dis  niggah's  life." 

The  little  game  one  was  tethered  by  one  leg  in  front 
of  the  quarters  of  the  disgraced  Sadie.  The  two  talked 
to  each  other,  while  the  mutual  friend  was  absent  for  a 
handful  of  grain. 

"Whah  foh  yoh  dun  call  to  me  in  de  night  time,  when 
yoh  knows  Ah  mustn't  leab  a-camp  ?" 

The  game  one  talked  back  spitefully.  His  beady  black 
eyes  sparkled  with  pure  wickedness,  and  he  squared  off 
in  splendid  fighting  form  when  the  prisoner  thrust  his 
heavy  boot  within  the  circle  of  the  tether.  The  bird  had 
thick,  stocky  legs,  and  gaffs  hard  as  crystal.  His  body 
feathers  were  glossy  black,  and  his  muscular  neck  had 
copper-hued  trimmings.  Even  for  a  Spanish  chicken,  the 
game  one  was  a  fancy  article. 

"Ah  mos'  cert'ny  los'  mah  nerve  when  Ah  heard  yoh 
callin'  to  me  up  in  de  hills  las'  ebenin'.  Ah  sure  knowed 
you  had  some  HI'  sisters  up  dar.  You  ought  to  be  a  mos' 
broken-hearted  HI'  chickum  foh  dis  a-poh  niggah.  Ah 
hopes  de  whole  Spanish  army  and  barb  wires  comes 
aheah  when  de  odah  troops  is  dun  gone.  Yoh  and  me, 
an'  dose  Bay  Hoss  niggahs  will  dun  take  de  island  bah 
ahselves.  .  .  .  What  yoh  dun  scoldin'  about,  mah 
HI'  game  chickum  ?" 

The  hot,  brown  hills  were  darkening  again.  Over  in 
the  low  southeast,  the  crescent  shaving  of  a  moon  paled 


32       The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry. 

in  the  deepening  twilight.  Out  in  the  bay,  the  gunboat 
leaned  on  its  moorings  and  watched.  All  at  once  there 
ripped  over  the  hot  Cuban  hills  a  ragged  carbine  volley. 
Evidently  the  black  troops  had  found  something  to  play 
with.  An  hour  afterwards,  and  the  hills  were  great  dark 
shadows,  for  the  night  overhung  them.  The  white  shav 
ing  of  a  moon  was  higher. 

About  this  time  every  darkey  cavalryman  in  the  Bay 
Horse  troop  heard  the  howls  of  a  fallen  sentry,  and  the 
angry  cackling  of  an  outraged  game  chicken.  But  not 
one  of  the  boys  who  stayed  behind  saw  the  black  recruit, 
who  was  clutching  a  loaded  carbine  and  whirring  away 
toward  the  great  black  shadows. 

Now,  everybody  knows  that  you  can't  see  Santiago 
from  the  coast.  You  can't  even  see  Morro  Castle  a  mile 
out  at  sea,  because  its  ramparts  are  the  color  of  the  rocks. 
Entering  the  channel,  your  craft  will  be  at  the  mercy  of 
Morro's  guns.  Then  you  will  pass  the  sunken  Merrimac, 
and  a  couple  of  Spanish  men-of-war,  the  cabins  of  which 
are  excellent  breeding-places  for  big  fish.  After  that  you 
will  see  a  round  basin  full  of  warm,  yellow  water  and 
hungry  sharks.  To  the  left  is  a  sun-scorched  plain,  where 
yellow-fever  patients  fight  for  life,  losing  generally;  and 
in  front,  sitting  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  is  Santiago,  minus 
some  of  its  rottenness  of  a  year  ago,  but  hardly  immacu 
late  yet. 

Four  miles  back  of  Santiago  there  is  a  hill  which  looks 
down  upon  the  city  and  its  harbor.  Upon  the  top  of  that 
hill  there  is  a  big  block-house.  Upon  its  sides  there  are 


The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry.       23 

many  other  block-houses,  also  barbed  pitfalls,  intrench- 
ments — and  graves.  It  was  upon  that  hill  that  the  black 
demons  broke  their  leash,  forgot  their  thirst,  and  gained 
everything  save  the  glory  they  deserved.  But  they  were 
only  regulars. 

Something  went  wrong  in  a  volunteer  battalion  that 
afternoon.  They  were  good  men  and  brave,  but  raw. 
They  had  not  eaten  for  many  hours.  The  sun  beat  piti 
lessly  down.  It  soaked  into  the  wet  sand  and  sent  forth 
a  sickening  steam.  It  sank  through  the  dusty  campaign 
hats  of  the  volunteers  and  put  mad  thoughts  in  every 
brain.  It  swung  a  black-dotted  haze  before  every  eye. 
It  chafed  the  skin  under  every  cartridge  belt,  and  blis 
tered  every  neck.  And  all  the  while  there  came  down 
from  the  hill  the  nagging,  maddening  patter  of  the  long- 
range  Mausers.  And  all  the  while  there  came  down  from 
the  sky  the  stifling,  pitiless  pressure  of  the  sun. 

The  volunteer  battalion  wavered  and  fell  back — "re 
tired  in  disorder,"  the  official  report  read.  It  was  the 
one  ugly  blotch  on  the  American  soldiers  in  Cuba.  The 
volunteers  have  long  since  been  forgiven  by  the  friends 
of  their  native  State ;  but  the  colored  cavalry  troops,  and 
the  other  regulars  who  did  not  fall  back,  will  never  for 
give  that  battalion  for  what  the  sun  madness  wrought  in 
their  raw  ranks  at  the  base  of  San  Juan  hill  that  July 
day. 

The  "niggers"  went  by  them — a  cursing,  unfeeling 
mass  of  animals.  They  preserved  a  ragged  skirmish  line 
all  the  way.  They  ran  a  little,  dropped  to  their  bellies 


24       The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry. 

and  fired,  vaulted  the  barbed  entanglements  and  caught 
their  breath  in  the  trenches  they  had  gained.  And  Sadie 
was  in  the  ranks  of  his  own  Black  Horse  troop,  clutching 
a  red-hot  carbine,  and  talking  to  himself  in  a  perfect  de 
lirium  of  joy! 

"Dose  white  ladies  is  a-mos'  cert'ny  unhappy,"  the 
black  recruit  was  heard  to  mutter  after  the  raw  battalion 
was  left  behind.  The  words  came  in  a  stifled  whisper. 
His  throat  was  caked  with  hot  dust,  and  his  nostrils  were 
full  of  it,  but  Sadie  did  not  know.  He  did  not  remem 
ber  that  he  should  have  been  a  prisoner  back  with  the 
game  chicken  and  the  Bay  Horse  troops.  He  did  not 
know  that  the  troop  commander  had  seen  him  on  the 
skirmish  line  with  the  others,  and  the  white  officer  hardly 
knew  whether  to  laugh  or  swear.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  troop  commander  did  both,  and  he  also  hoped  that  the 
black  recruit  would  get  wounded,  so  that  he  might  forego 
the  punishment  which  his  insubordination  made  neces 
sary.  Sadie  knew  nothing,  felt  nothing  but  the  glory  of 
the  moment. 

"An*  dis  am  mos'  cert'ny  a  wahm  time.  Is  Ah  glad 
Ah'm  libbin'?  Well,  Ah  hope  Ah  is.  ...  Dey  sure 
ought  to  gib  us  asbestos  mittins  to  pump  dese  heah  car 
bines,  foh  dey  would  mos'  cert'ny  boil  coffee!  .  .  . 
Hello,  dar,  mah  angel  broddah,  gimme  dat  a-cigarette. 
Ain't  yoh  a-dyin'  fast  enuf,  widout  hittin'  de  coffin 
nails?" 

A  wounded  Spaniard,  braced  up  in  a  trench,  was  weak 
ly  puffing  at  a  cigarette;  nor  was  he  the  only  one  who 


The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry.       25 

was  seen  smoking  and  dying  on  the  slope  of  San  Juan 
Hill  that  day.  Sadie  drew  a  deep  inhalation  into  his 
lungs,  then  put  the  cigarette  back  between  the  lips  of  the 
Spanish  soldier. 

"Ah  guess  Ah  don't  want  yoh  las'  butts — yoh  may 
wake  up  in  de  middle  ob  de  night  an'  need  it.  ... 
O-o-o-oh,  dah's  dat  Gawd-a-fearin'  cawpril!" 

The  non-commissioned  officer  who  had  made  trouble 
for  the  recruit  a  few  nights  before  was  having  a  very 
fast  time.  A  Spanish  infantryman  was  in  the  trench  with 
him.  Both  were  fighting  for  their  lives.  The  Spaniard 
had  a  bayonet  attached  to  his,  Mauser ;  the  corporal  had 
nothing  but  a  bare,  hot  carbine.  Sadie  settled  the  matter 
in  favor  of  the  Black  Horse  trooper.  Many  of  the  block 
houses  were  silenced,  but  whistling  death  still  blazed  out 
of  the  big  one  on  top  of  the  hill.  The  barb  wire  traps 
became  thicker,  and  more  men  on  the  skirmish  line  fell 
back  into  the  trenches  and  grunted  out  impotent  curses. 
Many  others  lay  silent.  The  black  troops  were  not  the 
only  ones  who  kept  the  small  of  their  backs  to  the 
trenches,  no  longer  Spanish,  that  afternoon. 

"Dis  cert'ny  am  de  mos'  glorifussest  moment  ob  mah 
life,"  gasped  the  black  recruit.  He  vaulted  a  barbed  wire 
pitfall  and  was  racing  toward  a  trench,  two  rods  ahead. 
Two  Spaniards  scrambled  out  and  started  to  dash  for  the 
summit.  They  never  reached  it,  because  too  many  Ameri 
can  soldiers  were  counting  on  just  such  chances  as  that. 
The  battle  fever  was  wild  in  Sadie's  blood.  At  that  mo 
ment  some  one  up  in  the  block-house  did  not  shoot  too 


26       The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry. 

high.  Sadie  stumbled  and  was  the  first  man  who  landed 
in  the  upper  pit. 

"Ugh!"  grunted  the  black  recruit.  "Ah  mos'  cert'ny 
am  punctahed  at  de  present  time.  Ah  wondah  ef  dose 
fool  Spaniards  am  acquaintanced  ob  de  fac'  dat  dey  can't 
kill  dis  a-niggah.  .  .  .  Ah  is  dun  agwine  to  sit  heah 
till  de  boys  am  in  de  block-house  up  yondah." 

The  above  came  in  choking  fragments.  The  troop 
commander  had  seen  the  rescue  of  the  corporal  and  the 
plunge  of  the  black  recruit  into  the  higher  trench.  For 
some  reason  he  swore.  It  was  not  a  loud  oath.  The  dust 
which  stuck  in  his  throat  would  not  permit  that.  And 
that  night  from  the  top  of  San  Juan  Hill  many  American 
soldiers,  white  and  black,  but  Americans  all,  saw  the 
lights  of  Santiago  shining  down  in  the  valley.  And  all 
night  long  the  Red  Cross  men  kicked  about  the  trenches 
with  lanterns. 

They  found  the  black  recruit  sitting  in  one  of  the  high 
est  pits.  His  blue  army  shirt  was  wet  and  gory.  A  car 
bine  rested  across  his  knees.  The  barrel  was  cold  now. 
Sadie  was  asleep. 

The  Red  Cross  men  thrust  the  lantern  into  the  face 
of  the  black  recruit.  He  opened  his  eyes,  squinted  hard 
at  the  light,  and  muttered : 

"Wheah's  mah  lil'  game  chickum?" 

The  troop  commander  stood  at  the  bunk  of  the  black 
recruit  in  the  temporary  hospital  just  outside  of  Santiago. 
By  the  way,  the  city  no  longer  sported  the  wrong  flag. 


The  Recruit  in  the  Black  Cavalry.       27 

And  there  was  a  twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  the  troop  com 
mander  as  he  said: 

"We're  going  to  send  you  back  to  the  States  to-morrow 
on  the  hospital  ship.  We  won't  court-martial  you  until 
you  get  back  from  sick-leave — understand — eh  ?" 

"If  de  captain  dun  gibs  me  five  yeahs  an'  a  bob-tail, 
Ah'll  still  be  glad  dat  Ah  wah  .in  de  Black  Hoss  troop  at 
de  propah  moment,  sah !" 

"You  sabed  mah  life,"  said  the  corporal. 

"Why,  what  yoh  talkin'  about,  cawpril?"  said  Sadie. 

And  when  the  captain  and  the  corporal  had  gone  away, 
the  black  recruit  questioned  his  best  friend  in  this  wise: 

"Is  de  Bay  Hoss  niggahs  come  up  yet — wif  mah  lil' 
game  chickum?" 


The  Silent  Trooper. 


THE  SILENT  TROOPER. 


Lander,  trooper  in  private  ranks,  never  told  just  why 
he  was  kicked  by  his  lieutenant,  Mat  Crim.  Lander  never 
told  anything.  That  accounts  for  his  being  left  to  him 
self  more  than  is  common  or  judicious  for  one  of  Uncle 
Sam's  horsemen  in  field  or  post. 

A  troop  is  a  family  of  big  boys.  Some  of  them  are  big 
bad  boys,  and  an  odd  thing  about  it  is  that  these  are  not 
always  the  unpopular  ones.  Troopers  do  not  fall  on  the 
neck  of  a  new  man.  They  treat  him  with  pinnacled  dig 
nity,  like  old  cavalry  horses  treat  additions  to  the  picket 
line.  If  the  new  man,  in  a  reasonable  period,  develops 
no  objectionable  traits,  he  will  find  himself  a  member  of 
the  family,  which  is  other  words  for  a  good  fellow. 

Because  a  man  happens  to  be  a  gambler  or  a  drunkard ; 
or  because  he  has  a  deep-rooted  aversion  for  the  various 
prongs  of  the  law — a  kind  of  shuddering  aversion  such 
as  many  soldiers  and  gentlemen  have  for  work — none  of 
these  things  form  a  primary  necessity  for  his  ostracism 
from  the  family  group. 

But  he  can't  be  a  silent  man  nor  a  sneak ;  neither  can 
he  manipulate  a  voluminous  correspondence.  These 
things  are  fatal.  Lander  was  a  silent  man. 

He  was  also  my  "bunkie,"  which  means  that  I  could 


32  The  Silent  Trooper. 

put  out  a  hand  almost  any  time  in  the  night  and  touch 
him.  Naturally,  under  such  conditions,  my  very  proper 
prejudice  against  him  on  account  of  his  infernal  reserve 
would  either  grow  into  an  uncomfortable  suspicion,  if 
not  worse,  or  else  I  would  learn  to  look  beyond  this  seri 
ous  mental  derangement  of  his.  As  it  was,  I  began  to 
feel  for  him  that  strong,  wholesome  respect  which  one 
always  has  for  physical  capability,  when  it  is  not  accom 
panied  by  mental  sluggishness. 

Then  I  liked  Lander's  face.  He  was  a  handsome  devil 
— handsome  astride  his  horse,  and  at  mess  and  at  groom 
ing — handsome  when  silent.  Yet  I  have  seen  his  eye 
lids  droop  over  a  wicked  pair  of  shining  eyes,  and  seen  an 
ugly,  bloodless  look  about  his  lower  lip. 

I  saw  this  on  the  hot  day  when  Lieut.  Mat  Crim 
kicked  him  in  the  back,  because — I  wish  I  knew  myself. 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  saw. 

A  couple  of  troops  of  the  regiment  were  out  on  target 
range.  We  were  camped  in  a  bunch  of  unaspiring  foot 
hills  which,  late  in  the  afternoon,  rested  in  the  huge  coni 
cal  shadow  of  Old  Baldy.  The  tip  of  Old  Baldy's  icy 
cone  punctures  the  sky  at  one  of  the  highest  points  in 
Arizona.  We  were  in  that  sand-stricken  land  where  way 
farers  have  to  climb  for  water  and  dig  for  fuel-wood.  We 
were  in  that  heat-ridden  land  where  the  lean,  long  coyote 
scents  death  and  trots  cautiously  thither — where  the  vul 
ture  cranes  his  bare,  crimson  neck  from  behind  a  cloud, 
and  peers  earthward  for  dying  things. 

The  loose  walls  of  the  big  Sibley  tent  were  not  flapping 


The  Silent  Trooper.  33 

in  a  breeze  that  afternoon.  The  silken,  tasseled  flag  which 
crested  headquarters  hung  limp  and  motionless.  The 
sun's  rays  were  slanting  and  vicious.  They  sapped  the 
energy  out  of  the  breezes  as  they  did  out  of  every  living 
thing.  The  men  rolled  about  the  tents  in  wet,  wilted 
misery.  Grooming  call  would  soon  be  sounded.  That 
meant  three-quarters  of  an  hour  over  a  sweating  horse 
in  the  sunshine.  The  men  were  putting  on  their  dis 
carded  shirts  now,  and  swearing  in  a  listless  monotone. 

Lieut.  Mat  Crim  was  a  little,  wasp-waisted  chap,  who 
had  a  dirty  trick  of  getting  mad.  His  West  Point  days 
were  too  fresh  in  his  mind  for  him  to  be  a  good  officer. 
He  never  allowed  himself  to  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  commissioned  officer  and  that  a  mighty  stretch 
of  superiority  lay  between  him  and  a  common,  enlisted 
man.  Crim  had  just  been  transferred  to  our  troop.  Lan 
der  had  come  from  another  regiment  two  months  before. 
The  two  men  met  that  hot  afternoon — just  before  groom 
ing  time. 

Lander  saluted.  Crim  stopped  short,  caught  at  his 
breath  several  times  and  began  to  relieve  himself  of  a 
lot  of  livid  English,  all  of  which  struck  me  as  mysterious. 
Lander  stood  "at  attention,"  said  something  in  a  low  voice 
and  walked  away. 

Lieut.  Crim  was  ungovernable.  He  sprang  after  Lan 
der,  kicked  him  in  the  back  and  said : 

"I'll  make  life  a  hell  for  you,  Charlie  Howard !"  which 
I  judge  must  have  been  Lander's  civilian  name. 


34  The  Silent  Trooper. 

Lander  turned,  looked  devilish  and  raised  his  big  right 
arm.  His  superior  officer  was  under  it. 

But  Lander's  arm  never  touched  Lieut.  Crim,  a  circum 
stance  which  made  me  cry  aloud: 

"Thank  God!" 

It  dropped  down,  while  Lander  laughed  low  and  me 
lodiously.  I  was  thinking  how  wicked  Lander  looked 
when  he  laughed  that  way.  Then  the  bugle  sounded 
"stables." 

Every  man  in  the  troop  detested  the  lieutenant,  and 
all  admired  Lander  for  keeping  his  nerve.  One  of  the 
most  unprofitable  things  a  soldier  can  do  is  to  strike  a 
superior  officer.  The  same  kind  of  a  finish  awaits  him 
as  if  he  had  been  found  sleeping  at  his  post. 

I  watched  Lander,  and  Lander  watched  Lieut.  Crim 
during  the  several  following  weeks.  And  they  were  not 
pretty  eyes,  those  strange  eyes  of  Lander's,  as  they  trailed 
the  movements  of  his  superior  officer. 

To  all  he  preserved  his  self-bound  intensity.  Glad,  in 
deed,  would  I  have  been  to  come  very  close  to  the  heart 
of  this  silent  man,  because  I  learned  to  have  deep  feelings 
for  him.  He  possessed  the  cold  nerve  which  makes 
heroes,  and  the  great,  warm  heart  which  makes  friends — 
I  was  sure  of  this.  But  his  nature  was  broad  enough 
to  cover  his  troubles,  so  he  did  not  confide  in  men.  Heroes 
can  hate  well.  , 

Why  my  eyes  wandered  to  the  opposite  side  of  one  of 
Lander's  letters  while  he  was  holding  it  up,  and  there 
lingered  for  a  single  disgraceful  second,  is  something 


The  Silent  Trooper.  35 

more  than  I  can  explain.  I  can  only  regret  it.  At  any 
rate,  I  saw  these  words: 

"Oh,  Charlie,  do  let  me  come  to  you!" 

A  lady-killer  is  my  silent  friend,  thought  I ;  but  I  didn't 
mean  to  read  part  of  his  letter — really,  I  didn't. 

After  five  weeks  the  troops  were  ordered  to  the  bar 
racks.  No  one  was  sorry,  for  life  on  target  range  in 
Arizona  is  tedious,  putting  it  with  studied  mildness.  And 
then  they  have  mosquito  netting  in  the  barracks. 

A  tragedy  was  enacted  on  those  moonlit  foothills  at 
Old  Baldy's  base  the  last  night  on  range.  I  am  not  a 
handy  man  at  tragedies.  It  was  this  way: 

"Say,  old  chap,"  said  Lander  in  a  light  manner  the 
morning  before,  "do  a  little  favor  for  me,  will  you?  I 
want  you  to  meet  a  lady  for  me.  I  believe  I  will  have 
another  engagement  to-night!" 

"A  lady  in  this  damned  country !"  I  whispered  excited 
ly.  Nothing  but  greaser  maidens  and  squaws  had  I  seen 
for  months — it  seemed. 

Reluctantly  he  handed  me  a  note,  part  of  which  is 
below : 

"I  could  not  help  coming.  I  was  frantic  when  I  learned 
that  he  was  transferred  to  your  troop.  You  must  meet 
me  to-night.  Did  you  think  I  could  forget  you?  Oh, 
Charlie,  I  may  be  acting  unwomanly,  but  I  am  desperate. 
No  one  knows  me  here  in  the  village.  I  will  be  near  the 
last  adobe  hut  on  the  north.  Oh,  why  did  you  go  away? 
I  thought  *  *  *  Come  to-night.  ELSIE." 

"It's  a  common  yarn,"  said  Lander  nervously.     "She 


36  The  Silent  Trooper. 

knew  me  up  north  as  a  civilian.  Crim  and  I  were  sta 
tioned  there,  but  he  did  not  know  me.  I  was  only  a 
private.  She  was  lovely  to  us  both.  The  queer  thing 
about  it  is  that  I  won  out.  Then  it  occurred  to  me  that 
I  was  only  a  common  soldier,  who  had  flunked  at  every 
thing  else  he  tried,  and  hardly  fit  to  marry,  so  I  applied 
for  a  transfer  and  chased  out.  She  wouldn't  have  Crim, 
anyway. 

"Now  Crim  turns  up  again  in  the  attitude  of  my  supe 
rior  officer,  which  is  very  dramatic,  and  the  little  woman 
is  here,  which  is  also  very  dramatic;  and  as  I  can't  see 
them  both  I  want  you  to  go  to  her.  I  must  keep  the 
other  engagement.  Tell  her  I'm  a  deserter,  or  dead,  or 
any  old  thing." 

For  the  second  time  I  heard  Lander  laugh  low  and 
melodiously.  I  can  hear  it  yet.  He  was  either  acting  or 
a  devil  for  coolness. 

"There'll  be  a  show  down  to-night,"  he  said. 

After  retreat,  the  lieutenant  called  for  his  horse  and 
loped  slowly  townward.  The  sun  was  red  and  low,  and 
the  silken  flag  over  headquarters  was  cased  for  the  night. 
A  little  later  Lander  entered  the  tent,  drew  his  cartridge 
belt  about  him  and  sauntered  carelessly  out. 

"Don't  keep  the  little  woman  waiting  long,"  he  whis 
pered  to  me.  I  watched  his  form  grow  dim  in  the  shadows 
toward  the  village.  Then  I  stepped  into  my  cartridge 
belt,  looked  at  my  six-shooter,  and  became  one  of  the 
mysterious  townward  procession.  Something  is  going  to 
drop  on  the  village  road  this  night,  I  thought. 


The  Silent  Trooper.  37 

Lander  was  sitting  by  the  roadside  a  mile  from  camp. 
He  was  puffing  a  cheroot,  and  smiled,  but  did  not  speak 
to  me.  A  round  moon  whitened  the  heavens  about  Old 
Baldy.  I  walked  away  from  the  village,  then  stole  back 
concealed  by  the  chaparral.  While  I  waited,  I  wondered 
why  I  had  not  remembered  to  shake  hands  with  Lander 
that  night. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  the  lieutenant's  horse  was 
heard  down  the  road.  I  hoped  that  Lander  would  pick 
off  his  man  from  ambush.  I  hated  to  think  he  would 
do  it. 

"Dismount,  lieutenant!"  sang  out  the  man  who  had 
been  kicked,  and  he  did  not  salute  his  superior  officer. 

What  Crim  said  as  he  obeyed  is  rather  important  but 
not  necessary  to  this  narrative.  But  Crim  knew  then 
that  he  was  only  a  common  human  man,  like  the  being 
before  him.,  whom  he  had  kicked.  He  saw  in  the  faded 
twilight  a  private  in  the  regular  army  who,  in  the  presence 
of  other  men,  was  his  slave,  but  who,  alone  in  the  foot 
hills  of  Arizona,  was  a  cool,  determined,  smiling  foe.  He 
saw  before  him  the  handsome  Charlie  Howard,  who  was 
loved  by  a  woman  he  loved.  He  saw  the  reckless  light 
in  Howard's  eyes  which  boded  no  good.  And  in  spite  of 
all  these  things,  Lieut.  Mat  Crim  was  game. 

The  moon  was  looking  over  Old  Baldy's  icy  crown 
now,  and  the  great  dome  above  and  the  sand  below  were 
filled  with  its  whiteness. 

"You  acted  the  coward  once,  little  officer — try  to  be 
a  man  to-night,"  I  heard  Lander  say.  "It  was  imprac- 


38  The  Silent  Trooper. 

ticable  to  procure  seconds,  so  you  will  have  to  rely  upon 
the  honor  of  a  common  soldier.  Perhaps  you  never  as 
sociated  such  sentiments  with  an  enlisted  man.  I  see 
that  you  have  your  six-shooter.  I  was  too  soft-hearted 
to  bruise  you  with  my  hands." 

Crim  looked  at  his  man  keenly.  He  then  looked  over 
his  six-shooter  carefully.  He  had  been  a  clever  shot  at 
West  Point. 

"Who  gives  the  signal  ?"  he  added,  clearing  his  throat. 

"Count  three  in  the  position  of  'raise  pistol/  "  said  Lan 
der  politely,  "after  which  you  are  at  liberty  to  fire  as 
soon  as  you  please." 

Crim's  tall  gelding  browsed  uneasily  and  whinnied. 
He  wanted  to  get  back  to  the  hay  on  the  picket  line,  but 
he  was  a  trained  cavalry  horse  and  did  not  think  of 
trotting  off  alone.  I  watched,  not  knowing  what  else 
to  do. 

Both  men  took  position,  and  came  to  the  regulation 
"raise  pistol." 

"Ready?''  asked  the  lieutenant,  clearing  his  throat 
again. 

"All  ready,"  answered  the  silent  man  cheerfully.  The 
moonbeams  whitened  his  forehead. 

"One,"  said  the  lieutenant.    Both  men  were  motionless. 

"Two!"  he  screamed.  His  arm  dropped.  There  was 
a  noise  and  an  empty  shell  in  his  six-shooter.  The  lieu 
tenant  had  forgotten  to  say  "Three." 

Lander  was  dying  in  the  moonlight,  and  there  was  no 


The  Silent  Trooper.  39 

empty  shell  in  his  six-shooter!  Mat  Crim,  his  superior 
officer,  ran  to  his  horse  like  a  thing  affrighted,  and  gal 
loped  away. 

"Go  and  tell  her,  old  chap,"  Lander  whispered,  "that 
Charlie  Howard  was  afraid  to  meet  her  to-night.  Tell 
her  that  his  memory  is  a  far  worthier  shrine  for  her  wor 
ship  than — a  common  cavalryman.  Tell  her  I  was  a  de 
serter,  because — damn  it  all,  old-  man,  I  think  a  lot  of 
the  little  witch.  You  needn't  tell  her  that  Crim  is  a 
coward — just  say  he  is  a  good  shot." 

And  when  there  were  no  more  words  I  hurried  away 
to  the  village  to  keep  Lander's  engagement.  She  was 
there — a  little  thing,  pretty  and  trembling.  There  was  a 
lace  handkerchief  in  her  hand  and  a  soft  perfume  about 
her. 

I  told  her  what  Lander  had  said.  She  did  not  cry, 
but  clutched  my  arm  with  fierce  strength. 

"Take  me  to  him/'  she  demanded. 

I  led  the  way  back  over  the  rolling  road,  and  when  we 
neared  the  spot  where  I  had  left  my  silent  friend  in  the 
moonlight,  I  heard  a  long,  low,  mournful  howl,  the  an 
swer  mingled  with  the  echo. 

"Let  us  hurry — faster !"  I  said. 

There  was  no  change.  Lieut.  Mat  Crim  had  not  re 
turned.  The  woman  picked  up  the  pistol  which  had  fallen 
by  the  silent  man's  side,  and  drew  open  the  cylinder  with 
the  ease  of  a  veteran.  Six  loaded  cartridges  fell  into  her 
hand. 


40  The  Silent  Trooper. 

"You  saw  it  all?"  she  questioned,  slowly.  "And  he 
was  your  friend  ?" 

I  bowed. 

"Then  you  will  kill  the  coward  for  your  friend's  sake?" 
She  spoke  the  words  altogether  too  loudly. 

"He  is  my  superior  officer,  madame,"  I  whispered. 

"Leave  me  now,"  she  commanded. 

"But,  madame,"  I  objected,  "I  must  walk  with  you 
back  to  the  village." 

"No,  no!  Leave  me.  I  have  this."  She  was  replacing 
the  cartridges  into  the  cylinder. 

As  I  stood  watching  her,  a  bugler  in  the  camp  a  mile 
away  played  the  last  call  a  soldier  hears  at  night — the 
mournful,  melancholy  taps.  And  I  looked  down  upon 
my  friend,  the  silent  man — they  would  sound  taps  over 
him  to-morrow — and  I  forgot  that  I  was  only  a  private 
in  the  regular  army. 

"Leave  me  now,"  she  repeated. 

And  when  I  had  gone  a  few  paces  I  turned.  She  was 
bending  low. 

The  moon  was  high  above  Old  Baldy  now,  and  its 
whiteness  was  upon  the  upturned  face  of  the  silent  man. 

Lieut.  Mat  Crim  called  for  his  horse  the  next  morning, 
when  a  guard  told  him  that  the  bodies  of  Private  Lander 
and  a  white  woman  had  been  found  out  in  the  chaparral. 


The  Degeneration  of  Laddie, 


THE  DEGENERATION  OF  LADDIE. 


In  trouble  was  his  normal  condition.  Laddie  was 
considerable  of  an  artist  in  the  first  place,  therefore  he 
could  not  have  found  himself  in  a  worse  predicament  than 
to  be  in  Uncle  Sam's  service.  If  his  artistic  nature  had 
only  been  in  his  fingers,  instead  of  his  whole  being,  Lad 
die  might  have  found  hapiness  in  the  troop,  for  we  all 
loved  him. 

In  that  affected  brain  of  his  there  was  another  dis 
torted  idea.  He  was  possessed  of  the  wild  notion  that  he 
was  as  clever  a  chap  mentally  and  with  his  muscles  as 
any  of  his  superior  officers — oh ! 

Laddie  feared  neither  black  man  nor  white.  He  had 
been  in  Porto  Rico  three  months,  and  had  enjoyed  only 
ten  days'  liberty.  In  spite  of  this  handicap,  the  smiles  of 
the  richest  and  prettiest  senoritas  in  Manati  were  for  him 
solely,  and  I  honestly  believe  that  he  had  more  friends 
among  the  natives  than  any  other  cavalryman.  His  was 
a  genius  for  making  friends 

Three  soldiers  were  standing  on  a  mountain  side  just 
out  of  Ciales.  It  was  early  evening.  Twenty  miles 
away,  through  a  rift  in  the  mountains,  they  could  see  the 


46  The  Degeneration  of  Laddie. 

Atlantic.  The  sun  was  sinking  into  the  sea.  The  east 
ern  highlands  were  dim  and  shadowy  now. 

"Say  we  walk  to  Manati,"  suggested  one  of  the  three, 
grinning.  It  was  eight  miles.  Many  are  the  govern 
ment  mules  that  have  lain  down  and  died  on  that  trail. 
The  Manati  River  crosses  it  eleven  times.  Many  are  the 
government  mules  that  have  kicked  vainly  and  been  car 
ried  away  limp  and  lifeless,  because  they  struck  the  Ma 
nati  fords  in  a  wrong  place.  And  government  mules  are 
not  without  a  number  of  kicks. 

"You  could  not  pay  me  to  hit  that  trail  in  the  night 
time,"  declared  the  second  soldier. 

"I'll  go  with  you,"  said  Laddie,  smiling.  He  was  think 
ing  of  the  bright-eyed  senorita,  whose  father  had  a  cellar 
full  of  wines,  pale  and  ruddy.  The  idea  grew  upon  him. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  go  unless  all  three  of  us  do,"  put  in 
the  cavalryman  who  was  first  to  speak. 

Laddie  was  silent.  He  knew  that  he  would  go  alone 
if  he  saw  the  senorita  that  night. 

"What  time  is  it?"  he  asked  finally. 

"Five  forty-five." 

"Have  you  got  a  coin?  Throw  it  up.  If  it's  head,  I 
go  alone."  Laddie  was  smiling  still. 

"You've  only  been  out  of  calaboose  a  couple  of  days. 
Be  careful  you  don't  get  collared  again,"  warned  the  sol 
dier  holding  the  coin.  He  threw  it  up. 

"Tail  she  is,"  they  told  Laddie.  Together  the  soldiers 
three  wended  their  way  back  toward  Ciales.  A  hundred 


The  Degeneration  of  Laddie.  47 

yards  they  traversed  in  silence.     Laddie  stopped  short. 
He  was  not  smiling  now. 

"Throw  it  up  once  more,"  he  asked  of  them.  By  his 
manner  one  would  think  he  was  trying  to  borrow  money. 
The  other  two  soldiers  made  use  of  those  expressions 
which  the  natives  over  here  picked  up  first. 

"Well,  you've  got  your  way.     It's  head  this  time." 

Laddie  rolled  up  his  sleeves.  Then  he  felt  in  his  pock 
ets.  "Give  me  a  piece  of  tobacco.  I'm  short." 

It  was  handed  to  him. 

"I'll  be  back  by  reveille,"  he  sang,  and  trotted  down 
the  trail  toward  the  first  ford. 

******** 

"Why,  it's  a  cinch,"  quoth  Laddie  in  the  first  stream. 
The  ripples  splashed  against  his  thighs,  and  his  lower 
jaw  became  unruly.  He  made  the  first  four  fords,  and 
the  day  was  gone.  He  sat  down  on  a  rock  and  rested, 
while  the  moon  rose  up  and  cheered  him. 

"Look  out  for  the  fifth  and  sixth  fords  going  to  Ciales 
— the  sixth  and  seventh  they  are  coming  back."  He  had 
often  heard  the  boss  of  the  pack  train  say  this.  And  he 
remembered  how  his  own  horse  had  struggled  in  these 
places  when  the  squad  came  up  from  Manati.  Laddie 
shivered  and  started  on. 

"A  man  ought  to  have  four  legs  for  this  fording  busi 
ness.  Why  in  the  devil  was  I  born  such  a  noodle?  The 
sixth  is  deep  and  broad ;  the  seventh  is  fast  and  deep." 

He  scrambled  down  the  bank  of  the  sixth.  Already  he 
could  hear  the  splashing  down  stream — the  splashing  of 


48  The  Degeneration  of  Laddie. 

the  falls  just  at  the  right  of  the  seventh  crossing.  He 
stood  ankle  deep  in  the  river.  A  big  red  horse,  resting  in 
the  shallows,  skipped  out  almost  from  under  his  feet.  It 
thrilled  him  unpleasantly.  Faintly,  in  the  moonlight,  he 
'  could  see  the  trail  continuing  oh  the  other  side.  He 
faced  a  few  degrees  up  stream  and  plunged  in.  The 
mountain  current  chilled  him  breast  high,  and  soaked 
some  papers  in  the  pocket  of  his  army  shirt. 

Laddie  made  the  sixth,  and  the  seventh,  too — after  a 
fearful  fight.  His  constant  thought  was,  "What  would  I 
do  without  the  moonlight  ?"  He  felt  strong  when  he  dis 
cerned  the  lights  of  Manati,  glimmering  in  the  valley  be 
low.  It  was  only  half-past  eight.  He  had  done  well. 

Laddie  passed  the  volunteer  military  headquarters 
going  back,  and  inquired  of  the  sentinel  the  time  of  night. 
It  was  about  to  strike  twelve.  He  would  be  in  his  own 
quarters  by  three — if  the  moon  shone  on  the  fords.  He 
was  quite  happy. 

Stars  were  visible  only  in  patches.  Black  streaks  were 
moving  around  the  moon.  Laddie  looked  up  and  started 
on  a  trot.  When  the  city  was  left  behind,  he  removed 
his  trousers  and  put  on  his  leggins  once  more  next  to  the 
skin.  The  memory  of  the  red  horse  in  the  shallows  made 
him  do  this.  For  the  first  time  he  felt  weary,  when  he 
climbed  up  the  Ciales  bank  of  the  fourth  crossing.  Rain 
drops  struck  his  face.  The  next  ford  was  the  ugly  one, 
and  it  was  growing  darker,  darker.  Already  he  could 
hear  the  plunging  river.  His  feet  were  troubling  him 
now,  and  the  trail  was  slippery  from  rain. 


The  Degeneration  of  Laddie.  49 

"God  help  me  if  I  don't  get  there  by  reveille.    They'll 
think  I've  deserted — and  with  my  record,  heavens !" 
******** 

He  stood  in  the  murky  blankness  on  the  fifth  river 
bank.  It  was  so  dark  that  he  could  not  tell  where  the 
cliffs  ended  and  the  sky  began ;  he  could  not  see  half  way 
across  the  angry  Manati.  Ah,  but  he  could  hear  its  roar ! 
Yes,  and  when  he  looked  long  he  could  see  its  foam.  The 
tropical  rain  beat  down. 

His  strength  was  not  so  great  as  before,  Laddie 
thought.  The  waters  beat  mightily  against  him.  Every 
time  he  raised  his  foot  he  feared  that  he  must  fall.  He 
passed  the  nucleus  of  the  river's  force.  His  breath  failed. 
He  stepped  on  a  rolling  stone,  sank,  and  fought  the 
waters  hands  and  feet.  Chilled  and  bruised,  he  groped  in 
the  rain  for  the  trail.  He  had  made  the  fifth  ford  going 
back — oh,  but  he  was  weary.  It  seemed  as  if  he  found 
the  way  and  he  walked  on — for  ages.  His  feet  were 
feverish  and  painful.  He  approached  the  river,  the  last 
one  he  feared.  It  looked  ugly  and  unnatural. 

Laddie  plunged  in,  struck  a  deep  hole  and  was  borne 
swiftly  down  stream.  He  had  hit  the  Manati  in  a  wrong 
place.  And  then  began  a  cavalry  recruit's  battle  against 
faintness,  fatigue,  and  a  wicked  current.  The  perpetual 
smile  on  Laddie's  tanned  countenance  vanished  when  he 
told  of  that  battle. 

"I  felt  that  my  time  to  croak  had  come,"  Laddie  said. 
Two  hundred  yards  below  the  point  where  he  entered 
the  stream,  the  young  cavalryman  clambered  up  on  the 


50  The  Degeneration  of  Laddie. 

other  side,  and  then  he  fell  down  in  the  rain.  This  is  the 
way  he  goes  on  with  the  story : 

"I  was  groggy  when  I  got  up,  and  cold  with  the  wind 
and  wet.  I  knew  that  I  had  wandered  from  the  trail  be 
tween  the  fifth  and  sixth  fords,  because  I  had  struck  deep 
water.  I  groped  along  the  bank  both  ways,  until  I 
thought  dawn  must  be  near.  I  prayed  that  I  would  stum 
ble  upon  the  trail. 

"This  extremity  I  would  not  have  deemed  necessary,  if 
I  was  only  to  be  hung  for  missing  reveille,  but  I  would 
get  a  call-down  from  four  different  parties  besides.  This 
thought  kept  me  on  my  feet.  At  last  I  walked  away 
from  the  river  and  got  tangled  up  in  a  barbed  wire  fence. 
The  heavens  did  not  give  forth  a  ray,  and  it  rained  on. 
Following  the  fence  to  the  left,  it  led  me  back  to  the  river. 
I  shuddered.  There  was  still  one  more  chance — to  go 
the  other  way  with  the  wires.  This  I  did,  and  to  my 
ears  was  borne  a  sweet  sound.  When  I  had  wrung  the 
water  out  of  my  eyes,  I  also  saw  a  sweet  sight.  A  dog 
barked  and  a  shadowy  shack  loomed  up  before  me. 

"I  knew  I  would  get  shot  at  for  a  guerrilla,  if  I  stole 
up,  because  the  dog  was  making  announcements.  I 
vented  Spanish,  therefore,  in  a  loud  voice  and  at  a  dis 
tance  : 

"  'Americano  soldato !  Americano  soldato !'  I  threw 
in  some  English  to  make  a  hit,  and  the  rear  door  opened 
a  couple  of  inches.  'Tengo  muchas  penas,  senor,'  I 
wailed,  all  of  which  means  that  I  was  an  American  sol 
dier  of  many  sorrows. 


The  Degeneration  of  Laddie.  51 

"  'Enter,  Senor  Americano.  Que  lastima.'  I  was  sin 
gularly  relieved  to  see  the  good  wife  hang  up  the  family 
musket.  I  was  also  made  happy  to  see  the  good  wife 
rake  up  the  coals  in  the  fire-place  and  start  a  pot  of  cof 
fee.  Porto  Rican  coffee  is  as  delicate  and  subtle  in  flavor 
as  it  is  mighty  in  body.  I  drank  and  would  have  departed. 
There  were  dry  clothes  for  me  in  the  woman's  hand.  Her 
husband  had  lit  a  cigar  and  gave  it  to  me.  An  extra 
hammock  had  been  strung.  How  I  wished  I  was  not  a 
soldier  that  night. 

"Yes,  I  rested.  I  thought  I  had  made  the  Spaniard 
understand  the  imperative  nature  of  reveille  roll-call,  but 
I  hadn't.  His  spirit  of  hospitality  was  too  massive.  He 
would  not  let  me  depart  until  I  had  lain  down.  How  de 
licious  was  the  drowsiness  that  stole  over  me — how  beau 
tiful  that  sleep.  Alas,  but  it  was  a  long  one,  too." 
******** 

The  first  streaks  of  pink  dawn  were  mellowing  the  east, 
when  Laddie  moved.  The  cigar  was  still  in  his  hand. 
He  jumped  up  with  a  groan  of  pain.  His  feet  were  sore, 
his  muscles  lame  and  stiff.  The  pot  of  coffee  was  still 
warm  upon  the  embers.  He  swallowed  a  quantity  and 
jumped  into  his  wet  clothes.  The  operation  was  a  pain 
ful  one,  putting  it  with  studied  mildness.  Then  he 
grasped  the  hand  of  the  Spanish  gentleman,  murmured 
his  gratitude,  and  dashed  out  into  the  dawn  toward  the 
trail.  He  could  see  it  now  winding  upward  toward  the 
heights.  He  had  missed  it  the  night  before  by  a  quarter 
of  a  mile. 


52  The  Degeneration  of  Laddie. 

Laddie  reached  the  summit.  Ciales  stood  out  upon 
the  cliffs  a  mile  and  a  half  away.  And  from  the  tiny  vil 
lage  over  the  rocks  and  hills  there  was  borne  the  first  call 
a  soldier  hears  in  the  morning,  the  cheery  reveille.  Poor 
Laddie  groaned.  He  did  not  hurry  after  that. 

The  troopers  were  at  breakfast  when  he  reached  the 
quarters.  The  top-sergeant  met  him  with  certain  phrases 
of  English  which  would  look  strange  if  reproduced,  and 
then  went  with  him  to  the  commanding  officer.  The  cap 
tain  told  Laddie,  among  other  things,  that  he  was  a  dis 
grace  to  his  country,  and  ordered  him  looked  up.  The 
prisoner  wearily  moved  his  bunk  over  to  the  Spanish  jail, 
and  rested  all  the  rest  of  the  day.  Then  he  commenced 
to  think.  That  evening  when  Kruger,  a  Hoosier  recruit, 
brought  Laddie's  supper  over  to  the  jail,  he  found  that  the 
prisoner  had  become  solid  with  the  Spanish  policemen 
already — solid  to  such  an  extent  that  they  had  allowed 
him  to  stroll  in  the  plaza  and  watch  the  sunset.  It  is 
pretty  to  see  the  sun  sink  beyond  the  mountains  away  up 
there  in  Ciales.  And  Kruger,  the  Hoosier  recruit,  told 
the  top-sergeant  how  solid  Laddie  was  with  the  Spanish 
policemen — all  of  which  caused  the  top  to  be  very  angry 
and  much  trouble  for  the  prisoner.  The  latter  spent  the 
night  in  thought. 

******** 

On  the  morning  of  the  second  day  after  this,  they 
found  that  Laddie's  bunk  was  empty,  except  for  the  fol 
lowing  letter,  which  was  characteristic : 


The  Degeneration  of  Laddie.  53 

"Dear  Captain — My  chief  regret  in  taking  this  step  is 
that  I  do  so  while  the  features  of  Kruger,  the  Hoosier 
child,  are  still  intact.  If  a  dirty  word  is  written  next  to 
my  name  in  the  troop  books,  it  is  because  there  is  no  al 
ternative.  I  believe  that  it  is  the  desire  of  those  above 
me  to  omit  my  name  from  roll  calls. 

"I  make  no  rash  promises  about  being  dead  when  re 
taken,  if  any  such  unfortunate  circumstance  should  oc 
cur.  I  could  not  wait  for  a  legitimate  discharge,  because 
the  vermin  here  have  got  me  bluffed.  And  besides,  I  am 
afraid  of  the  noisome  la  viruella  (smallpox).  My  fellow 
convict  was  taken  away  with  it  this  morning.  He  was 
quite  a  gentleman,  by  the  way. 

"Pure  Castilians  walk  through  my  apartments  with 
their  noses  in  a  sling.  They  walk  through  rapidly.  I 
have  not  that  privilege.  I  did  not  consult  the  worthy 
Porto  Rican  policia  before  leaving.  Had  I  done  so  they 
would  probably  have  wished  me  godspeed. 

"I  have  enjoyed  the  service.  I  have  met  some  right 
royal  good  fellows.  I  have  not  the  space  nor  the  com 
mand  of  English  to  write  concerning  some  others.  I 
have  several  sore  toes,  and  a  painful  remembrance  of  the 
Manati  fords.  I  hate  to  face  my  mother. 

"Here's  looking  at  you  all.  I  do  this  with  no  rum  in 
my  brain.  May  you  all  serve  your  thirty  years  and  live 
happily  ever  afterwards  in  the  soldiers'  home,  and  may  I 
reach  God's  country  *>efore  I'm  twenty-one. 

"Lovingly,  LADDIE." 


Toreador,  the  Game  One. 


TOREADOR,  THE  GAME  ONE. 


Only  two  things  in  this  world  did  Benito,  the  poor 
Porto  Rican,  love.  One  was  Marie,  who  lived  with  her 
mother  in  a  tiny  shack  away  up  in  the  mountains,  and  the 
other  was  Toreador,  a  very  fancy,  very  trim  and  very, 
very  game  little  red  chicken. 

Now,  Sunday  is  market  day  in  that  little  tropical  island, 
and  the  natives  bring  their  wares  to  the  plazas  of  the  vil 
lages.  Then  in  loud  voices  they  tell  the  passers-by  just 
how  good  and  cheap  their  things  are.  And  every  Sun 
day  morning  Marie  used  to  trip  down  the  trail  into  Cori- 
zel,  with  a  basket  of  sweetmeats  upon  her  head,  and  then 
she  would  cry :  "Cocoa  de  dulce !  Cocoa  de  dulce !"  until 
her  apron  was  heavy,  and  jingled  with  big  centavos,  and 
all  the  sweetmeats  were  gone. 

Benito  would  lavish  his  single  centavo  for  a  piece  of 
Marie's  sweets,  but  mostly  he  cared  for  the  smile  from 
Marie's  dark,  pretty  eyes,  which  she  always  gave  him. 
When  Marie  called  aloud,  "Cocoa  de  dulce,"  Benito 
thought  that  it  was  the  sweetest  sound  he  had  ever  heard, 
and  after  Marie's  cute  figure  was  lost  in  the  coffee  shrubs 
which  bordered  the  trail,  Benito  would  sigh  and  walk 


58  Toreador,  the  Game  One. 

back  to  his  little  room  in  the  poorest  and  shabbiest  of  all 
the  poverty  shacks  in  the  district.  Then  he  would  di 
vide  the  cocoanut  sweets  with  Toreador,  telling  the  game 
one  all  the  while  how  wonderfully  sweet  and  pretty  was 
the  maiden  whom  he  gazed  at  so  long  every  Sunday. 

Now,  Toreador  had  blood  in  his  veins  as  blue  as  the 
ocean  at  night.  He  was  only  a  baby  bird,  but  his  race 
dated  back  to  the  time  when  Castilians  ruled  the  world 
and  owned  most  of  it.  Toreador  was  the  scion  of  the 
gamest  fighting  stock  ever  pitted  in  that  land  of  fair  seno- 
ritas  and  fancy  cocks.  Toreador  had  gaffs  as  sharp  as  a 
surgeon's  lance  and  as  tough  as  ivory.  Muscles  were  on 
his  body  as  hard  as  steel  nails.  He  had  a  wicked  beak 
and  a  long,  thick  neck — a  typical  fighting  neck,  and 
brownish  black  eyes  so  bright  that  they  shone  like  elec 
tric  sparks. 

Toreador's  father  was  a  champion  of  other  days. 
Everybody  for  miles  around  Corizel  knew  the  record  and 
pedigree  of  this  bird,  and  everybody  envied  the  rich 
Spanish  planter  who  owned  him,  because  many  were  the 
pesos  which  the  gamecock  piled  up  for  him  every  Sun 
day.  Now  Benito  had  seen  the  doughty  chicken's  last 
fight,  after  he  had  laid  low  five  other  birds  in  two  hours. 
He  was  fighting  in  the  dark,  for  the  spark  had  run  out 
of  both  his  eyes.  And  no  one  was  sadder  than  Benito 
when  the  great  battle  was  over  and  the  head  of  Torea 
dor's  splendid  sire  dropped  into  the  dust  of  the  pit  and 
rested  there. 

The  mother  of  Benito's  bird  was  as  trim  and  fancy  a 


Toreador,  the  Game  One.  59 

lady  as  ever  strutted  about  a  fresh-laid  egg.  No  one  but 
Benito  knew  of  Toreador's  illustrious  parentage,  and  no 
one  but  Benito  knew  how  the  tiny  chicken  became  pos 
sessed  by  the  poor  Porto  Rican.  One  morning  the  little 
brothers  and  sisters  of  the  artistocratic  brood  missed  one 
of  their  number,  and  the  mighty  el  capitan  of  the  Ameri 
can  soldiers,  who  owned  them  all,  likewise  missed  the 
youngster,  whom  Benito  called  Toreador  and  learned  to 
love.  That  was  all  there  was  to  it. 

In  the  days  that  follow  Marie  grew  more  pretty  to 
Benito's  eyes,  and  the  game  one  grew  strong  and  hard 
ened. 

Time  came  when  Benito  could  no  longer  wait  for  Sun 
days  in  order  that  he  might  see  the  little  dark-eyed 
maiden  who  parted  her  red  lips  in  a  smile  for  him.  So, 
one  evening,  he  crept  up  the  trail  toward  the  little  high 
land  shack  of  Marie  and  her  mother,  and  watched  while 
the  moon  rose.  Away  up  in  the  northland  where  the 
American  soldiers  came  from  and  lingeringly  talked 
about,  it  was  winter;  but  the  night  was  warm  where 
Benito  was,  and  the  breezes  of  evening  were  as  soft  as 
only  breezes  are,  and  they  were  laden  with  the  perfume 
of  orange  groves  wild  and  vast.  The  moon  rose  into  the 
heights  and  candles  glinted  in  the  village  down  in  the  val 
ley.  Meanwhile  Benito  watched,  and  the  little  Corizel 
River  purled  and  tinkled  on  its  way  to  join  the  Rio 
Grande. 

And  when  the  moon  was  so  bright  and  big  that  its 
white  radiance  dimmed  the  stars,  Marie  came  out  of  the 


60  Toreador,  the  Game  One. 

doorway  and  turned  her  face  upward.  Then  she  sang  to 
the  great,  white  beauty  of  the  heavens — she  sang  of  love's 
enchantment,  and  every  note  was  a  rapture  to  the  poor 
Porto  Rican  who  watched.  It  seemed  to  him  one  mo 
ment  that  his  heart  must  burst,  so  big  was  it.  Then  Marie 
sang  soft  and  low  of  slumber,  and  the  tinkle  of  the  tiny 
Corizel  was  hushed  when  the  slumber  song  was  ended. 
The  aged  mother  of  the  dark-eyed  maiden  sat  with 
drowsy  eyes  in  the  doorway,  biding  her  time. 

Next  Sunday  Marie  smiled  upon  Benito  prettier  than 
ever,  for  she  saw  that  he  had  a  faint  look,  and  that  his 
face  was  very  wan  and  ashy  for  a  Porto  Rican's.  She 
did  not  know  that  he  had  been  toiling  from  dawn  to 
dark  for  six  days,  prodding  weary  oxen  over  the  rocky 
trail  between  a  big  hacienda  and  Corizel,  carrying  tons  of 
green  coffee.  She  did  not  know  that  he  had  not  eaten 
enough  in  those  six  days  to  satisfy  the  game  one,  nor  that 
he  had  four  bright  silver  pesos  hidden  away  in  his  shabby 
shack.  Marie  did  not  know  that  his  four  silver  pesos  and 
his  starvation  were  for  her.  But  somehow  she  smiled 
upon  him  very  sweetly  that  Sunday.  Perhaps  it  was  be 
cause  she  pitied  his  wan  face.  And,  oh,  how  happy  was 
Benito,  the  poor  Porto  Rican,  that  day. 

A  week  passed  and  there  were  four  more  silver  pesos 
hidden  away  in  the  dingy  shack,  and  Marie  did  not  see 
Benito  this  Sunday.  Strange  things  were  going  on  in 
his  hut.  Toreador  was  trimmed  for  action,  like  the  decks 
of  great  fighting  ships  are.  The  green  and  copper-hued 
feathers  of  Toreador's  neck  were  cut  away.  His  wings 


Toreador,  the  Game  One.  .61 

were  clipped,  and  his  limbs  and  breast  laid  bare.  Then 
very  skillfully,  very  carefully,  Benito  scraped  and  sharp 
ened  the  gaffs  of  the  game  one  until  they  shone  like  the 
sabers  of  American  cavalrymen  and  were  as  keen  as 
needlepoints. 

All  the  while  Toreador  clucked  and  scolded  angrily. 
Never  before  did  his  brownish-black  eyes  gleam  with 
such  wicked  intensity,  and  never  before  did  Benito  see  a 
bird  in  such  splendid  fighting  form  as  was  his  own  little 
game  one,  as  he  strutted  about  the  shack  and  scolded. 

When  all  the  preparations  were  over,  Benito  wrapped 
his  eight  silver  pesos  in  a  cloth,  and  with  the  game  one 
under  his  arm  he  walked  across  the  town  to  the  cock-pit. 
Toreador  had  no  experience — only  instinct.  He  was 
matched  against  a  fancy  gray  chicken  who  had  won  bat 
tles  before.  But  the  gray  chicken  never  won  another, 
because  Toreador,  somewhat  scratched,  but  with  two 
eyes  and  much  nerve  and  wind,  crowed  lustily  while  the 
other  was  weakly  pounding  the  turf  with  both  wings  and 
a  bleeding  crest.  Marie  was  gone  from  the  plaza  when 
Benito  returned,  but  he  was  never  so  happy  before,  since 
he  had  twice  as  many  pesos  as  when  he  started,  and  he 
was  nearer  to  the  day  when  he  might  tell  Marie's  old 
mother  where  his  heart  was,  without  shame. 

So  time  passed  and  Benito's  handkerchief  became 
heavier  and  heavier,  while  Toreador  added  craft  to  his  in 
stinct  and  honor  to  his  race.  And  Benito  alone  knew  the 
stock  from  which  his  game  one  sprung. 

At  last  the  great  day  dawned. 


62  Toreador,  the  Game  One. 

Now  it  was  very  natural  that  the  captain  of  the  Ameri 
can  soldiers  should  hear  of  the  fame  which  a  certain  ple- 
bian  bird  was  making,  and  straightway  he  sought  out 
the  poor  native  who  owned  this  bird,  and  fixed  a  day 
when  he  should  match  his  high-born  Morro  with  the 
dauntless  Toreador. 

The  great  day  was  fixed — the  day  that  would  make 
Benito  rich  enough  to  speak  to  Marie's  mother,  or  so 
poor  that  he  would  long  for  death. 

Thus  it  was  that  Toreador,  whom  men  called  the  peer 
less  plebeian,  met  the  mighty  Morro,  and  great,  indeed, 
was  the  battle.  So  nearly  alike  were  the  two  birds  that 
Benito  found  it  necessary  to  distinguish  Toreador  by  a 
ribbon  on  his  left  ankle.  Men  marveled  at  the  likeness 
between  the  two  birds,  and  trembled  when  they  thought 
how  terrible  the  battle  would  be.  The  American  captain 
hired  a  native  to  train  his  bird.  Benito  and  this  man 
stood  alone  in  the  pit.  Each  held  a  chicken  under  his 
arm.  The  cocks  were  quivering,  straining,  clucking  low 
and  defiantly.  The  wagers  were  made;  the  birds  were 
cooled  with  an  icy  spray,  and  the  big  cock-pit  became  as 
silent  as  the  great  white  cliffs  above. 

Benito  never  could  tell  what  he  did  the  next  hour.  It 
was  a  lifetime  for  him.  His  face  mirrored  the  agony,  the 
struggles,  the  determination  of  his  game  one.  He  thought 
not  of  Marie,  not  of  the  little  fortune  he  would  win  or 
lose.  He  thought  only,  lived  only  for  the  doughty  Spar 
tan,  whom  he  had  reared  from  a  chick,  and  who  was  try 
ing  to  live  under  the  onslaught  of  a  worthy  foe. 


Toreador,  the  Game  One.  63 

Toreador  did  not  feel  Morro's  keen  gaff  as  it  dark 
ened  one  side  of  his  head  one  whit  more  than  did  Benito ; 
and  the  heart  of  the  poor  Porto  Rican  grew  cold.  Ah, 
yes,  Morro  was  a  worthy  foe,  but  Toreador  had  not  weak 
ened  yet.  The  American  captain's  chicken  hugged 
closely  to  Toreador's  dark  side  and  stabbed  often  and 
deep.  At  last  the  birds  went  into  the  air.  There  were 
thrusts  that  moment  which  no  one  saw.  And  when  the 
rivals  landed,  Morro  could  not  keep  his  feet.  He  sank 
to  his  breast,  then  slowly,  very  slowly,  his  beak  dropped 
toward  the  turf. 

Toreador  did  not  crow.  He  was  staggering,  pecking 
wildly  at  thin  air.  Both  sides  were  dark  now.  Toreador 
did  not  know  that  he  had  won  his  last  battle.  And  as 
the  great  shout  went  up  for  the  winning  bird,  not  a  soul 
thought  that  Toreador  had  laid  his  own  brother  low. 

That  night  Benitoi  walked  up  the  trail  toward  the 
shack  of  Marie  and  her  mother.  Twilight  had  dimmed 
the  sunset  land.  Over  in  the  low  southeast  the  moon  was 
rising. 

Benito  was  not  so  happy  as  he  dreamed  he  would  be 
this  moment,  yet  he  was  rich  now,  and  yearned  to  see  the 
little  dark-eyed  maiden  of  the  highland  shack.  He 
thought  of  the  songs  she  had  sung  that  night,  while  she 
gazed  up  into  the  twinkling  heights.  He  thought  of 
Toreador,  stiff  and  wounded,  back  in  the  town. 

Farther  up  toward  the  cliffs  he  could  see  the  shadowy 
outline  of  Marie's  home.  The  night  was  falling  upon  it, 
and  the  tiny  Corizel  tinkled  among  the  big  stones.  More 


64  Toreador,  the  Game  One. 

and  more  of  the  rocky  trail  was  silently  left  behind.  Very 
cautiously  he  emerged  from  the  coffee  shrubs  a  few  rods 
from  the  shack.  He  was  weak;  his  breath  came  fast. 
The  big  bag  of  silver  pesos  seemed  very  heavy. 

And  as  Benito's  eyes  peered  through  the  dark  he  saw 
the  little  maiden  whom  he  loved.  The  arms  of  a  big 
American  cavalryman  were  around  her,  and  she  was 
smiling  into  his  eyes. 

Then  Benito  crawled  back  toward  the  lights  of  the  vil 
lage.  The  heavy  bag  of  silver  pesos  lay  by  a  big  stone  at 
the  edge  of  the  trail. 

Down  in  Benito's  shack,  Toreador,  sore  and  blinded, 
dreamed  of  the  battle  he  had  won. 

But  the  story  of  Benito,  the  poor  Porto  Rican,  is  not 
ended. 


The  Wooing  of  Benito. 


THE  WOOING  OF  BEN1TO. 


Silk  Redmond,  cavalryman  through  necessity,  and  pri 
vate  of  course,  sat  on  the  porch  of  an  old  banana-house, 
high  up  in  the  interior  of  Porto  Rico.  For  a  trooper,  he 
sadly  exerted  his  brain.  It  was  very  foolish  for  a  man 
in  Redmond's  position  to  think  at  all.  It  seemed  ages  to 
him  since  patriotic  proclivities  went  quivering  through 
the  land  and  the  bodies  and  souls  of  callow  young  men. 
Then,  for  the  first  time  in  Redmond's  life,  he  had  been 
close  enough  to  the  world  to  discover  how  threadbare  it 
was  worn  in  some  places. 

Redmond  had  just  emerged  from  college.  There  was 
a  classical  unsophistication  about  him.  The  youngster 
who  blackened  his  boots  might  have  given  him  all  kinds 
of  points  concerning  mundane  matters — then.  Redmond 
could  have  composed  an  astronomical  essay  with  ease 
and  effect,  but  he  couldn't  dash  off  a  murder  yarn  and 
make  an  edition  for  anything  short  of  a  weekly  paper. 
Theoretically,  he  would  have  made  a  fast  lawyer,  but  in 
practice  it  would  have  meant  incarceration  for  a  poor 
devil,  whose  jag  had  been  officially  spoiled,  to  trust  to  his 
pleading  in  police  court. 


70  The  Wooing  of  Benito. 

Silk  Redmond  needed  to  be  polished  off  with  that  sort 
of  jagged  pumice  which  a  man  gets  only  by  brushing 
about  city  streets — and  in  Uncle  Sam's  service. 

As  the  tall  trooper  sat  on  the  porch  of  the  old  banana- 
house,  with  his  toughened  cavalry  legs  hanging  over,  he 
mused  savagely  on  the  days  when  he  had  a  grudge  against 
himself — those  days  when  he  tried  to  work  off  patriotic 
chills  and  fever,  and  be  a  civilian  still. 

Turning  his  back  upon  college  days  and  a  pretty  girl, 
Redmond  plunged  southward  to  join  his  regiment;  and 
not  until  he  sat  on  the  dirty  deck  of  a  transport,  smoking 
a  very  black  pipe,  and  watching  the  officers  up  on  the 
spotless  bridge,  where  he  dare  set  foot  only  at  the  price 
of  his  liberty,  did  Silk  Redmond  get  time  to  think.  And 
at  night,  away  up  north,  a  little  college  girl  had  com 
pleted  her  studies  for  the  day,  and  was  thinking  of  a  big, 
noble  soldier  fellow ;  and  often  her  eyelids  were  moist  ere 
her  student  lamp  flickered  and  sputtered  out.  But  she 
did  not  write  because  she  had  a  mind  of  her  own,  this  lit 
tle  college  girl,  and  she  had  told  a  certain  big  fellow  that 
he  was  many  kinds  of  a  chump  to  chase  away  from  his 
prospects,  and  everybody  who  liked  him,  when  there  was 
no  show  of  his  ever  getting  shot  at,  anyway. 

******** 

Mail  had  come  in  from  the  States  that  day,  but  there 
was  no  letter  from  the  little  college  town.  It  was  even 
ing  now.  A  disgusted  cavalryman  swung  down  from 
the  porch  of  the  old  banana-house,  answered  retreat  in  a 
surly  tone,  and  then  strolled  up  the  rocky  trail  toward  a 


The  Wooing  of  Benho.  71 

tiny  shack  where  a  dark-eyed  maiden  lived.  Now  Silk 
Redmond  did  this  to  get  even  with  himself  and  the  col 
lege  girl.  His  heart  was  not  with  the  little  dark-eyed 
maiden,  whose  name  was  Marie,  but  far  away  in  the 
northland.  Redmond  was  not  happy  as  he  panted  up  the 
steep  trail. 

The  village  of  Corizel  was  in  the  valley  below  him,  and 
the  little  Corizel  River  splashed  down  the  mountain  side, 
passed  by  the  village  and  tinkled  on  toward  the  Rio 
Grande.  No  cavalryman  dared  enter  that  village  toward 
which  the  river  was  spreading.  Hideous  la  viruela  was 
there — smallpox,  the  Americans  called  it.  A  quarantine 
hung  over  the  whole  valley.  That  was  why  Uncle  Sam's 
cavalrymen  were  quartered  in  the  old  banana-house,  two 
miles  beyond  the  village. 

Marie  had  dark,  Spanish  eyes,  cute  smiles  and  ways, 
the  prettiest  of  red  lips  and  the  tiniest  of  white  teeth ;  but 
somehow  Silk  Redmond  was  gloomy  that  night.  He 
could  think  only  of  the  other  maiden  away  up  in  the 
northlabd,  where  the  white  faces  and  the  great  cities  were 
— the  maiden  of  the  little  college  town,  who  would  not 
write  to  him  because  he  was  a  trooper. 

Together  they  stood,  the  trooper  and  Marie,  in  the 
moonlight,  in  front  of  the  highland  shack.  The  great 
white  cliffs  rose  up  above  them ;  and  as  they  stood  there 
with  the  white  moonbeams  resting  upon  their  faces,  Silk 
Redmond  kissed  the  little  dark-eyed  maiden,  because  it 
was  the  proper  thing  for  a  trooper  to  do  at  such  a  junc 
ture. 


7*  The  Wooing  of  Benito. 

And  at  that  moment  the  heart  of  Benito,  the  poor  Porto 
Rican,  was  almost  broken. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  Benito,  who  lived  in  the 
poorest  and  shabbiest  of  all  the  poverty  shacks  in  Cori- 
zel,  had  loved  Marie  long  and  dearly.  And  on  Sundays 
in  the  plaza,  the  little  dark-eyed  maiden  had  often  smiled 
sweetly  upon  him.  Now  Benito  never  told  Marie  that  he 
loved  her,  yet  all  the  while  he  was  starving  and  slaving 
so  that  some  day  he  might  have  money  enough  to  tell 
her  without  shame. 

Then  it  was  that  Toreador,  the  game  one,  the  fanciest 
of  fighting  cocks,  whom  Benito  had  reared  from  a  tiny 
chick,  met  the  mighty  Morro  in  the  cock-pit,  and  laid  him 
low.  And  many  were  the  silver  pesos  which  Toreador 
won  for  Benito  that  day.  But  the  game  one  could  never 
be  pitted  again,  for  the  gaffs  of  the  mighty  Morro  had 
darkened  the  spark  in  both  his  eyes. 

Let  it  be  known,  too,  that  Benito,  no  longer  poor  after 
the  battle,  had  crept  up  the  trail  toward  Marie's  shack  in 
the  shadow  of  the  great  white  cliffs.  A  big  bag  of  silver 
pesos  was  in  his  hand.  Benito  was  sad  because  the  splen 
did  Toreador,  whom  he  loved  next  to  Marie,  must  live 
always  in  darkness  after  that  day.  Had  not  Toreador 
given  his  eyes  that  he  might  have  Marie?  But  Benito 
thought  also,  as  he  crept  up  the  trail,  of  the  little  dark- 
eyed  maiden,  and  of  joys  sweet  and  lasting. 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  Benito  crawled  down  once  more. 
He  had  seen  Marie's  laughing  eyes  as  the  big  cavalryman 
kissed  her  lips  in  the  moonlight.  His  brain  conceived  no 


The  Wooing  of  Benito.  73 

thought  of  vengeance  that  moment,  but,  oh,  how  it 
throbbed  and  burned ! 

It  was  not  long  after  that  when  Silk  Redmond  kicked 
his  foot  against  a  big  bag  of  silver  pesos  as  he  hastened 
down  the  trail.  He  whistled  softly  and  marveled.  The 
cavalryman  had  not  been  paid  for  two  months,  but, 
strangely  enough,  the  idea  did  not  occur  to  Redmond  to 
buy  bottles  of  rum,  by  which  he  might  make  himself  for 
ever  solid  with  his  fellow  troopers.  He  was  not  an  old 
enough  cavalryman  for  that. 

Rapidly  the  tall  trooper  trotted  down  the  trail.  Indis 
tinctly  among  the  shadows  and  moonbeams  ahead  Silk 
Redmond  saw  a  dark  form  creeping  slowly  toward  the 
village.  Softly  he  followed,  clinging  to  the  bag  of  silver. 

Was  it  a  sob  that  he  faintly  heard  above  the  splashing 
of  the  Corizel  ?  Anyway,  the  tall  trooper  forgot  that  taps 
would  sound  in  a  half  hour  and  that  cavalrymen  are  sup 
posed  to  be  in  their  bunks  when  the  bugle  notes  are 
ended.  He  disregarded  the  stern  order  about  entering 
the  town,  and  cautiously  followed  the  dark  figure  to  the 
shabbiest  of  all  shacks  in  the  poverty  district  of  Corizel — 
followed  him  through  the  very  lurking-places  of  the  noi 
some  la  viruela.  And  at  last  Silk  Redmond  saw  Benito 
push  open  the  door  of  his  dingy  hut  and  disappear. 

Then  the  big  cavalryman  heard  a  piteous  sound.  It 
was  the  weeping  of  a  man  whose  heart  was  breaking — 
poor,  harmless  Benito! 

It  was  a  queer  moment  for  Trooper  Redmond.  There 
was  no  light  but  that  of  the  moon  within  the  shack,  and 


74  The  Wooing  of  Benito. 

when  the  big  soldier  peered  in  he  saw  the  bowed  head  of 
the  Porto  Rican,  trembling  in  sorrow.  And  Toreador, 
with  hurting  wounds  and  shrunken  eyes,  drowsed  and 
dreamed  in  the  dark. 

A  thought  crept  into  the  head  of  Silk  Redmond.  It 
caused  him  to  chase  over  to  a  store.  It  made  him  pur 
chase  a  candle  and  return  to  the  hut  of  Benito.  And 
everybody  stared  hard  at  the  tall  trooper  as  he  passed 
by.  They  knew  that  he  had  no  right  to  be  walking  the 
streets  of  quarantined  Corizel. 

"I'm  going  to  find  out  what  that  poor  devil  is  'loco' 
about,"  muttered  Redmond  as  he  tapped  at  the  door  of 
the  shack.  He  held  the  bag  of  silver  in  one  hand.  In 
silence  and  solemnity  the  cavalryman  lit  the  candle,  and 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  Porto  Rican.  They  were  great, 
dark  eyes,  staring  in  wonderment  and  grief,  and  lustrous 
with  tears.  They  moved  piteously  from  the  bag  of  silver 
to  the  face  of  the  cavalryman,  who  came  from  the  great 
land  over  in  the  northwest  beyond  the  sea,  and  they  grew 
more  lustrous  with  tears. 

Then  the  two  talked  in  Spanish  for  many  minutes. 
Something  that  was  in  the  heart  of  the  tall  trooper — 
something  which  shone  out  of  his  eyes — soothed  the  sor 
row  of  the  poor  Porto  Rican  as  he  told  the  story  of 
Toreador,  the  game  one,  and  of  Marie,  who  lived  with  her 
mother  away  up  toward  the  great  white  cliffs. 

And  one  time  Silk  Redmond  had  to  turn  his  face  away 
so  the  other  might  not  see  that  something  which  was 
in  his  eyes,  for  it  was  something  which  did  not  look  well 


The  Wooing  of  Benito.  75 

in  the  eyes  of  a  big  cavalryman.  Before  leaving  the  shack 
Silk  Redmond  spoke  these  words  in  Spanish : 

"Look  pleasant,  and  do  as  I  say,  and  we'll  manage 
about  the  senorita.  Meet  me  half  way  up  the  trail  to 
morrow  at  two.  Fasten  a  grin  on  your  face  now,  even  if  it 
is  painful,  and  go  to  sleep.  I'll  do  the  rest,  and  don't  let 
that  bag  of  money  go  kicking  around  any  old  trail.  Keep 
close  to  that  and  the  grin,  and  I'll  make  you  the  man  of 
that  shack  up  there  where  Marie  and  her  old  woman 
live." 

A  half-hour  later  the  tall  trooper  had  stolen  past  the 
guard  and  crawled  into  his  bunk.  Then  he  lighted  a  very 
black  pipe  and  began  to  think  of  young  men  and  maid 
ens,  light  and  dark.  And  back  in  the  college  town  one  of 
the  young  lady  students  tore  up  a  letter  addressed  to  a 
big  soldier,  because  the  last  page  had  wet  spots  upon  it. 

For  six  afternoons  Redmond  met  the  Porto  Rican  and 
stood  over  him  while  the  latter  choked  down  great  quan 
tities  of  manhood  in  the  form  of  army  rations. 

"Get  outside  of  those  beans,  they'll  make  a  man  of  you. 
Assimilate  that  hunk  of  sow-belly,  it'll  sparkle  in  your 
blood."  These  remarks  dropped  out  with  puffs  from  a 
very  black  pipe. 

On  the  sixth  day  Redmond  brought  with  him  a  cake 
of  "government  bouquet"  and  a  clean  shirt.  Then  he 
administered  unto  Benito  a  thorough  scrubbing  down  in 
the  Corizel,  and  finally  groomed  him  up  nicely  in  the  shirt 
of  army  blue.  Puffing  meanwhile,  the  tall  trooper  sur- 


76  The  Wooing  of  Benito. 

veyed  his  job  and  was  satisfied.  That  evening  the  two 
walked  together  on  the  trail  toward  the  highland  shack. 

And  there  was  the  same  old  smile  for  Benito.  He  had 
a  well-fed,  natty  look,  which  surprised  her.  Silk  Red 
mond  was  silent  through  the  heavy  effort  of  his  brain. 

"The  American  el  capitan  is  a  mighty  man,"  he  sug 
gested  finally.  Benito  and  Marie  were  of  the  same  opin 
ion.  Then  the  tall  trooper  took  Marie  out  into  the  moon 
light  and  told  her  many  things  which  we  all  know.  Mean 
while  Benito  clung  to  his  grin  and  money-bag,  and  shed 
abroad  mild  Spanish  commonplaces  for  the  benefit  of 
Marie's  old  mother. 

"The  American  el  capitan  has  made  up  his  mind,"  con 
tinued  Redmond,  once  more  in  the  shack,  "that  Benito, 
my  friend,  has  arrived  at  sufficient  property  and  years,  to 
hitch  his  fortunes  to  some  pretty  senorita.  The  captain 
has  appointed  me  to  pick  out  the  maid."  The  tall  trooper 
said  all  these  things  in  Spanish. 

"I  have  written  concerning  the  matter  to  my  wife,"  he 
resumed,  seriously.  The  immensity  of  his  fabrications 
tickled  his  throat.  Marie  puckered  up  her  red  lips  re 
proachfully.  "My  wife,  who  is  a  very  learned  woman, 
says  that  Benito  and  Marie  are  twin  souls,  and  so  it  must 
be.  I  will  leave  you  now,  my  children " 

Benito  clutched  at  a  grin,  but  it  was  a  pathetic  one, 
and  with  hands  that  trembled,  he  placed  the  bag  of  silver 
pesos  in  the  lap  of  his  twin  soul.  The  little  maiden 
pouted  at  the  tall  trooper  as  he  disappeared. 

Before  the  night  that  Silk  Redmond  sank  down  on  his 


The  Wooing  of  Benito.  77 

bunk  with  deathly  pains  in  his  head  and  back,  he  had  the 
satisfaction  to  learn  from  Benito's  own  lips  that  Toreador, 
the  game  one,  would  shortly  be  moved  up  to  the  shack  in 
the  shadow  of  the  great  white  cliffs. 

Not  many  days  afterward  the  troop  commander  tele 
graphed  back  to  the  States  that  Private  Redmond  was 
lying  very  low  with  smallpox.  That  very  night,  the  girl 
who  lived  in  the  college  town  wrote  a  long  letter  to  her 
big  trooper.  There  were  wet  spots  on  every  page,  but 
she  sent  it,  anyway. 

And  that  letter  was  read  to  the  sick  soldier  by  a  com 
rade  in  the  hospital  corps  six  days  afterward.  It  made 
the  tall  trooper  feel  so  strong  that  he  lit  a  very  black  pipe 
for  the  first  time  in  many  days. 

And  now  Toreador  drowses  in  the  darkness  and  dreams 
of  the  battles  he  has  won,  in  the  shack  of  Marie  and  Be 
nito,  far  up  on  the  trail.  And  in  the  evening  the  old 
mother  of  them  both  sits  in  the  doorway,  biding  her  time, 
while  the  tiny  Corizel  tinkles  on  its  way  to  join  the  Rio 
Grande. 


» 


"She  leaned  her  face  down  close  to  that  of  the  cavalryman,  so  that  he 
might  not  also  see." 


Two  Women  and  a  Soldier. 


TWO  WOMEN  AND  A  SOLDIER. 


When  you  see  a  man  of  wit,  culture  and  intelligence 
in  an  awkward  cavalry  squad,  learning  the  rudiments  of 
military  symmetry,  you  may  rest  assured  that  a  story 
lurks  behind  his  enlistment — that  is,  if  the  arts  of  peace 
predominate  in  his  land  at  the  time.  There  are  various 
reasons  why  men  enter  the  regular  service.  Chiefly  among 
these  is  the  desire  to  live  by  as  little  work  as  possible, 
and  no  worry.  There  are  other  men,  of  course,  whose 
personality  has  become  odious  in  certain  sections  of  the 
country.  These  are  not  worried  in  the  service,  because 
a  soldier  is  judged  by  his  animal  worth,  and  not  by  the 
enduring  quality  of  his  moral  instinct.  .  .  .  You 
would  not  find  another  like  Yenning  in  the  cavalry. 

In  a  quiet  way  he  showed  his  educational  attainments. 
To  every  man  in  the  troop  he  also  revealed  a  courtesy 
which  was  high  and  inborn.  Inasmuch  as  the  new  trooper 
possessed  the  form  of  a  Spartan  warrior,  and  a  face  such 
as  the  Greeks  loved  to  picture  for  their  gods,  his  fellow 
cavalrymen  bore  with  his  infirmities  of  gentle  breeding. 

Earth  is  considerably  remote  from  some  stars.  The 
distance  is  not  greater,  however,  than  the  distinction  so- 


82  Two  Women  and  a  Soldier. 

cially  between  an  enlisted  man  and  a  commissioned  officer 
of  a  troop.  The  fact  is  well  known  that  it  is  a  breach 
of  military  etiquette  for  an  officer  to  affiliate  with  a  man 
in  the  ranks.  It  is  infinitely  worse  than  a  breach  for  an 
officer's  daughter  to  do  this. 

Unfortunately,  the  laws  of  nature  are  mightier  than 
army  regulations,  and  ever  since  the  world  has  been  made 
merry  and  sad  by  human  attachments,  young  girls  have 
become  desperate  over  handsome  men. 

Captain  Bishop,  the  troop  commander,  was  one  of  the 
best  pistol  shots  and  one  of  the  worst  drunkards  in  the 
army.  Very  natural  it  was  for  such  a  man  to  have  a 
pretty  daughter.  It  was  very  natural,  also,  for  Private 
Yenning  to  be  chosen  orderly  the  first  time  he  mounted 
guard.  His  hose  and  equipments  were  perfect ;  his  cloth 
ing  was  new  and  fitted  him ;  in  short,  he  was  the  best 
looking  soldier  in  the  detail.  And  the  best  looking  sol 
dier  is  usually  chosen  for  orderly. 

Now,  it  is  the  duty  of  the  orderly  to  shadow  his  com 
manding  officer,  to  keep  his  chest  thrown  out,  his  chin 
drawn  in,  and  his  mouth  shut — and  to  obey  orders  until 
relieved.  Among  other  minor  things  which  Venning  did 
the  next  day  was  to  stand  "at  attention"  for  four  hours 
in  a  downtown  cafe,  while  old  Bishop  waxed  con 
vivial  toward  himself  and  lenient  toward  men  and  things. 
During  the  last  hour  the  troop  commander  became  so 
popular  that  he  felt  called  upon  to  buy  drinks  for  every 
body  in  the  house,  with  the  exception  of  his  orderly, 
of  course.  It  would  be  decidedly  unsoldierly  for  an  offi- 


Two  Women  and  a  Soldier.  83 

cer  to  drink  in  the  same  place  with  his  orderly.  Old 
Bishop  was  never  unsoldierly. 

The  result  was  that  Yenning  became  ugly  and  white; 
in  the  first  place,  because  a  deep  gash  was  rent  in  his 
pride,  and,  secondly,  because  he  lost  his  supper.  All  of 
which  shows  he  was  not  cut  out  for  a  common  soldier. 
Had  Venning  possessed  the  proper  spirit  of  an  orderly, 
he  would  have  rejoiced  over  his  dry  outing,  and  been 
proud  that  his  captain  trusted  him  to  the  extent  of  dis 
playing  his  weaknesses  before  him.  It  can  be  readily 
seen  how  culture  and  education  spoils  the  good  soldier 
in  a  man.  Finally,  Venning  received  the  barely  articulate 
order  to  take  his  captain  back  to  the  post.  There  was 
a  look  upon  his  handsome  face  which  was  far  from 
agreeable  while  the  orderly  helped  his  superior  officer 
into  a  cab. 

There  had  been  no  Mrs.  Captain  Bishop  since  Nellie's 
mother  died,  happy  in  her  husband's  oath  of  a  reforma 
tion,  immediate  and  absolute.  Nellie  was  the  pretty 
daughter. 

It  was  quite  late  when  the  sentry  at  the  entrance 
of  the  post  grounds  challenged  the  carriage.  At 
this  time  Venning's  military  training  only  covered  a  pe 
riod  of  six  weeks,  and  it  is  not  wonderful  that  he  forgot  all 
about  it,  when  the  dark-eyed  young  woman  whom  he  had 
often  seen  on  parade  grounds  tripped  through  the  vesti 
bule  to  the  front  door  of  the  Bishop  residence,  where  he 
was  standing. 

"I  am  Orderly  Venning,  Miss  Bishop,"  he  said  slowly. 


84  Two  Women  and  a  Soldier. 

"The  captain  is  in  the  carriage.  If  you  will  show  me 
where  his  apartments  are,  I  will  help  him  there." 

"Oh!"  This  was  all  that  the  orderly  heard  from  the 
young  lady's  lips.  Many  elements  were  in  her  mind  that 
moment.  The  splendid  soldier  whom  she  had  so  often 
thought  about  .was  before  her.  It  was  late.  There  was 
no  one  but  the  servants  in  the  house,  and  they  were 
asleep.  She  understood  thoroughly  the  condition  of  her 
father.  Being  an  officer's  daughter,  she  realized  fully  the 
indignity  to  which  this  man  had  been  subjected.  She 
felt  too  degraded  for  herself  to  pity  Yenning.  His  voice 
thrilled  in  her  ears.  She  was  a  very  young  woman. 

Yenning,  the  cavalryman,  would  have  been  a  far  dif 
ferent  fellow  from  Yenning,  the  civilian,  had  he  failed 
to  understand  the  pressure  of  the  moment.  He  thought 
of  a  couple  of  circumstances  which  occurred  when  he  was 
not  clothed  in  army  blue.  He  thought  of  a  bitter  lesson 
he  had  learned  from  a  woman,  who  was  neither  so  young 
nor  so  innocent  as  the  maiden  who  stood  in  the  dimly 
lighted  vestibule.  He  thought  how  sweet  and  dainty  the 
captain's  daughter  looked.  He  was  tingling  still  from 
the  shame  in  the  cafe.  Yenning  never  was  a  saint.  He 
had  been  a  wooer  many  times,  a  student  all  his  life,  and  a 
gentleman  at  all  times.  He  was  very  human,  however. 
He  knew  what  was  possible. 

Captain  Bishop  was  in  a  deep  and  noisy  sleep.  Nor 
was  he  disturbed  in  any  way  when  the  orderly  lifted  him 
from  the  carriage  to  his  apartments.  The  young  woman 


Two  Women  and  a  Soldier.  85 

led  the  way.  Shame  flushed  her  cheeks,  and  sorrow  was 
in  her  dark  eyes.  And  Yenning  pitied  her. 

"I  will  see  that  everything  is  cared  for,"  he  said,  "and 
I  trust  you  believe,  Miss  Bishop,  that  no  one  will  hear  of 
this." 

She  hastened  down  the  stairway.  Her  hands  trembled 
and  her  eyes  were  very  bright.  This  man  talked  to  her 
as  an  equal,  she  thought.  He  had  such  white,  refined 
hands — such  a  noble  face!  And  his  voice  was  so  soft 
and  rich!  Surely  he  was  a  good  man  and  worthy,  in 
spite  of  army  rules.  Why  should  she  be  above  anybody, 
with  a  father  like  that — upstairs  ?  And  Miss  Bishop  felt 
an  ominous  smarting  in  her  eyes,  caused  by  all  these 
thoughts.  Suddenly  she  remembered  something  and 
sped  into  the  kitchen. 

Meanwhile  the  captain  was  disrobed  by  his  orderly, 
who  had  performed  similar  attentions  to  many  of  his 
friends  in  civilian  days,  and  knew  the  trick.  His  superior 
officer  was  at  length  adjusted  comfortably  in  his  proper 
place,  and  there  was  a  queer  smile  upon  the  face  of  Yen 
ning. 

"What  an  old  beast  you  are!"  he  muttered.  "How 
easily  could  I  make  you  suffer  for  what  you  have  done 
this  night — if  I  cared  to !" 

He  turned  the  gas  down  low,  and  tip-toed  to  the  stair 
way.  There  he  paused,  listening.  The  thoughts  in  his 
mind  could  not  be  described.  He  descended  whistling, 
whichnvas  hardly  relevant. 

"Orderly!"    The  voice  reached  him  from  behind  the 


86  Two  Women  and  a  Soldier. 

drawn  shades  of  the  dining  room.  It  was  the  voice  of  a 
young  woman  who  is  not  certain  that  she  is  acting  with 
judgment.  The  word  she  had  uttered  filled  Yenning  with 
thoughts  which  pained.  For  an  instant  he  had  forgot 
ten  that  he  was  his  captain's  valet.  The  young  woman 
advanced  timidly  toward  him. 

That  night,  after  the  cavalryman  had  supped  and  de 
parted,  Miss  Bishop  crept  into  her  father's  room.  The 
gas  had  been  lowered  until  its  light  did  not  equal  the 
blaze  of  a  match.  The  captain  was  deeply  unconscious. 
Everything  in  the  room  was  in  perfect  order. 

"Oh,  that  he  should  have  to  do  such  things  for  you," 
murmured  the  young  woman.  Five  minutes  afterward 
she  was  locked  in  her  own  apartments. 

Meanwhile  Yenning  slipped  past  the  sentries,  and  up 
the  iron  stairway  of  the  barracks  to  his  cot.  He  stood 
in  the  dark  by  the  window  rolling  a  cigarette.  Over  in 
the  captain's  quarters,  across  the  parade  grounds,  a  light 
was  still  shining  upstairs.  It  was  not  in  the  captain's 
room.  When  the  cigarette-  was  so  short  that  it  burned 
Venning's  fingers  -he  light  still  shone  in  the  officer's  resi 
dence.  And  so  Trooper  Yenning  met  the  daughter  of  his 
troop  commander. 

Four  months  later  the  command  received  orders  to  re 
pair  at  once  to  a  point  of  embarkation.  American  soldiers 
were  needed  to  simplify  certain  matters  in  Cuba.  Al 
most  every  day  in  those  four  months  Yenning  had  re 
ceived  a  letter,  addressed  in  a  woman's  hand.  Its  post 
mark  bore  the  name  of  a  Northern  city. 


Two  Women  and  a  Soldier.  87 

In  the  deep  shadow  of  an  unused  building,  on  the  even 
ing  before  the  cavalrymen  left  for  the  front,  there  came 
to  the  daughter  of  Venning's  troop  commander  a  sorrow 
deep  and  lasting. 

The  captain  was  at  the  officers'  club-rooms  with  the 
other  commissioned  men.  The  barracks  was  brilliantly 
lighted,  and  from  its  open  windows  Yenning  and  the 
maiden  could  hear  the  songs  of  the  soldiers.  The  night 
before  men  leave  for  the  front  they  are  always  merry — 
as  an  aeronaut  is  before  swinging  off — because  crowds 
are  watching.  The  cavalryman  and  captain's  daughter 
stood  together  at  the  wall  of  an  old  deserted  barracks. 
Above  them  a  great  tree  whispered  and  sighed.  The 
man  was  vaguely  conscious  of  the  silent  suffering  in  the 
dark  eyes  of  the  girl — of  her  face  which  was  white  with 
pain.  He  was  conscious,  too,  of  the  moveless  chill  which 
filled  his  breast;  but,  more  than  all,  he  felt  a  moral 
strength  in  his  brain  which  was  strange  and  new.  In 
the  branches  above  them  there  was  a  music,  low  and 
mournful. 

"Little  girl,"  said  the  trooper,  "I  do  not  know  what 
has  come  over  me.  Somehow,  I  am  a  different  fellow 
to-night.  If  I  had  felt  like  this  before  I  would  never 
have  been  a  cavalryman,  because  I  could  have  done  no 
wrong.  .  .  .  There,  there,  Nellie.  I  do  not  mean  to 
grieve  you  through  any  stories  of  those  other  days. 
.  .  .  I  never  thought  I  could  hate  myself  so  intensely 
for  them! 

"I  feel  too  black,  little  girl,  to  be  near  you  to-night. 


88  Two  Women  and  a  Soldier. 

I  cannot  help  it.  There  was  a  time  when  I  laughed  at 
anybody  who  spoke  of  a  love,  strong  and  sweet  and  pure. 
A  man  who  sears  and  bruises  his  conscience  for  years 
cannot  tear  the  callous  off  in  a  night.  I  must  be  good ! 
I  must  do  something  hard !  I  must  get  away  from  Ven- 
ning,  the  animal !" 

The  young  woman's  head  drooped  toward  the  ground. 
The  man  raised  it  gently  with  both  his  hands  upon  her 
cheeks.  His  whole  body  seemed  to  be  strained  and  tense 
in  his  effort  to  control  the  trembling  of  his  nerves.  Only 
a  broken  whisper  came  from  his  throat  now. 

"To-morrow  we  leave,"  he  continued.  "I  will  not 
write  to  you  yet.  I  may  never  come  back  to  this  post 
or  where  you  are.  Little  girl,  I  want  you  to  be  the  same 
sweet  and  pure  Nellie  who  made  a  man  like  me  love  you, 
and  who  made  a  man  like  me  say  such  things  as  I  have 
said  this  night.  And  remember,  had  I  not  spoken  such 
words,  my  feelings  would  not  be  akin  to  the  love  which 
is  sacred  and  beautiful.  .  .  .  And,  Nellie,  when  I 
am  man  enough,  you — shall — know — it !" 

The  branches  of  the  great  tree  above  them  slowly 
swayed  in  the  night  breeze,  and  their  shadowy  deeps  were 
full  of  sighings.  The  man  and  the  maiden  still  lingered. 
There  is  silence  when  hearts  are  speaking.  The  man 
dared  not  touch  his  lips  to  those  of  the  maiden,  for  his 
strength  was  only  human.  The  voices  of  the  soldiers  in 
the  barracks  seemed  far  away  now,  and  their  laughter 
was  hushed.  At  last  there  floated  out  with  the  radiance 
from  the  windows  the  strains  of  a  mighty  melody.  The 


Two  Women  and  a  Soldier.  89 

voices  of  men,  great  and  deep  and  vibrant  with  soul,  were 
raised  in  the  hymn  which  soldiers  love — "God  Be  With 
You  Till  We  Meet  Again !" 

And  that  night,  in  his  cot,  Yenning  smoked  many 
cigarettes,  and  hoped  that  his  troop  would  encounter 
fierce  action,  bloody  action,  and  much  of  it ! 

******** 

The  pitiless  Cuban  sunshine  was  beating  down  from  the 
sky;  and  from  the  block-house  on  top  of  the  hill  death 
flashed  and  screeched  out  of  hot,  dusty  Mauser  barrels. 
A  wavering  line  of  blue  gasped  in  the  heat  and  choked 
in  the  dust,  but  pushed  upward  toward  the  block-house — 
falling,  cursing,  crawling,  but  always  upward!  Squares 
of  army  blue  cloth  hung  upon  the  barbed  entanglements 
on  the  hillside;  and  dark  little  men  with  haggard  faces 
and  a  strange  language  were  prone  in  the  trenches  with 
the  soldiers  of  a  Northern  land.  And  to  those  men  who 
laid  side  by  side  in  the  trenches,  international  war  had 
lost  its  consequence. 

When  the  afternoon  was  dimmed  by  the  deepening 
twilight,  the  block-house  on  the  top  of  the  hill  had 
changed  hands.  And  the  soldiers  from  the  Northern  land 
who  held  it  now  were  still  panting  from  the  greatness  of 
the  deed.  And  when  the  twilight  was  darkened  by  the 
tropical  evening,  the  Red  Cross  men  lighted  their  lan 
terns  and  crept  about  the  trenches,  peering  everywhere 
for  warmth  and  life. 

Among  those  whom  they  found  who  were  not  cold  was 
Trooper  Yenning. 


90  Two  Women  and  a  Soldier. 

Far  below  in  the  valley  glinted  the  lights  of  Santiago, 
and  upon  the  hill  an  American  battery  was  placing  its 
guns.  To-morrow  those  guns  would  be  uncased,  and 
their  gaping  mouths  would  roar  for  cannon  meat.  They 
would  dictate  to  the  city  down  in  the  valley  to-morrow. 

When  a  man  has  only  the  life  of  a  baby  in  his  body, 
when  most  of  his  blood  and  all  his  passion  has  trickled 
out  through  a  wound,  and  breathing  is  a  burden  because 
he  is  so  weary — then  one's  whole  sense  is  that  of  con 
science,  and  one's  brain  gropes  about  among  things  un 
seen.  Before  Yenning  slept  that  night  he  saw  one  bright 
spot  standing  out  from  the  gloom  of  the  days  he  had 
lived.  He  had  been  a  wooer  many  times,  but  he  had  only 
loved  once.  He  had  thought  that  purity  and  truth  in  a 
woman's  mind  were  only  for  the  dreams  of  softer  mo 
ments.  But  the  innocence  of  a  young  girl  had  revealed 
to  him  that  a  mind  can  be  human  and  beautiful  as  well. 

As  the  wounded  cavalryman  lay  in  the  darkness  hardly 
breathing,  many  ideas,  long  latent,  were  revealed  to  him. 
He  knew  that  the  impulse  of  sacrifice,  which  he  had  acted 
upon  the  last  evening  at  the  post,  was  worthy  of  every 
atom  of  a  man.  He  learned  that  in  the  love  which  man's 
God  smiles  upon  there  is  often  a  sacrifice,  sad  but  just. 
Before  he  slept  that  night  he  knew  that  he  had  done 
what  was  best  by  the  daughter  of  his  captain.  Against 
this  one  action  there  hung  in  the  balance  the  whole  life 
of  a  man  of  passion.  Whether  it  was  the  years  or  the 
deed  of  a  moment  which  was  found  wanting  only  Ven- 
ning  and  his  Judge  knew,  but  the  sleep  which  came  to  the 


Two  Women  and  a  Soldier.  91 

wounded  soldier  that  night  on  San  Juan  Hill  brought 
peace  and  strength. 

A  month  afterward  Yenning  was  much  stronger.  He 
was  in  a  big  army  hospital  back  in  the  States.  His  face 
had  always  been  one  which  a  woman  would  remember. 
It  was  handsome  still,  but  white  and  drawn  from  suffer 
ing. 

A  well-dressed  woman  was  just  stepping  out  of  the  of 
fice  at  the  entrance  of  the  hospital  grounds.  She  would 
have  attracted  a  man's  eye  anywhere.  She  was  the  same 
who  had  written  to  Yenning  so  many  times,  since  he  had 
been  a  soldier — the  same  who  had  caused  him  to  become 
one.  A  younger  woman  dressed  in  black  and  carrying  a 
hand-satchel  entered  the  office  at  this  moment.  The  one 
who  had  just  stepped  out  heard  the  other  inquire  timidly: 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  ward  Private  Yenning  is  in  ?" 

The  older  woman  quickened  her  steps  toward  one  of 
the  large  tents  at  the  far  end  of  the  grounds.  Not  long 
afterwards  she  was  sitting  by  the  side  of  Venning's  cot, 
holding  the  soldier's  hand.  The  man's  eyelids  were 
closed ;  the  woman  could  hear  him  breathe.  She  believed 
that  he  was  very  weak  still. 

"How  did  you  get  away?"  Yenning  asked.  His  throat 
was  dry  and  his  words  hoarsely  uttered. 

"He  at  last  concluded  that  we  were  not  for  each  other. 
He  was  very  gentlemanly  about  it — poor  Teddy.  You 
are  all  mine  now,  Mister  Soldier."  The  woman  was  smil 
ing  merrily. 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  has ?" 


92  Two  Women  and  a  Soldier. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  use  that  ugly  word!"  she  inter 
rupted.  The  afternoon  was  warm  and  the  flags  of  the 
tent  were  hung  back.  The  sunlight  rested  upon  the  cov 
erlet  of  Venning's  cot  and  buried  itself  in  the  yellow  hair 
of  the  woman.  She  placed  her  hand  tenderly  upon  the 
soldier's  forehead.  His  lips  were  white  and  smileless. 
There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"Has  any  other  woman  visited  you  here?" 

The  cavalryman  opened  his  eyes  quickly.  There  was 
pain  in  them,  which  the  woman  thought  the  wound 
caused. 

"No  other  woman  has  visited  me  here." 

"Oh,  how  ill  you  are  still,  my  poor  soldier!  Tell  me, 
tell  me  at  once  if  you  are  sorry  I  came  to  you !" 

The  man  did  not  answer  at  once.  His  eyes  were  closed. 
He  was  silently  suffering. 

"I  thought,"  the  woman  said  slowly,  "I  thought  that 
when  you  got  your  sick  furlough  we  would " 

The  face  of  the  younger  woman  was  at  the  far  end  of 
the  tent.  Her  dark,  wide-open  eyes  mirrored  the  suffer 
ing  which  was  in  her  soul.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
there — the  only  girl  who  had  ever  sounded  the  depths  in 
the  nature  of  her  father's  orderly. 

And  the  woman  who  sat  by  Venning's  side  saw  the  look 
which  was  upon  the  face  of  the  maiden,  and  she  leaned 
her  face  down  close  to  that  of  the  wounded  cavalryman, 
so  that  he  might  not  also  see.  Then  she  smiled  sweetly, 
for  she  had  long  since  mastered  the  mysteries  of  maiden 


Two  Women  and  a  Soldier.  93 

hearts.  Daintily  she  pressed  a  kiss  upon  the  white  lips 
of  the  soldier. 

And  when  the  woman  raised  her  head  the  maiden  in 
the  opening  was  gone. 

The  nurse  was  taking  the  temperature  of  a  fever  pa 
tient  in  the  farther  end  of  the  tent. 


'Don't  touch  him."     It  was  a  squaw's  voice. 


Red  Brennan  of  the  Seventh, 


RED  BRENNAN  OF  THE  SEVENTH, 


Dad  Evans  told  the  tale.  He  is  an  old  cavalryman, 
born  with  a  saddle  between  his  thighs — a  soldier  by  tem 
perament  and  a  man  instinctively.  Old  Dad  has  served 
thirty  years,  but  he  was  so  miserable  away  from  the  troop 
that  they  took  him  back  in  spite  of  his  dimmed  eyes  and 
chalky  joints. 

Rebellion  memories  are  rampant  in  Dad  Evans'  mind. 
He  was  a  tough  little  bow-legged  cavalryman  then.  A 
dozen  Indian  fights  are  shown  on  his  discharge  papers. 
And  then  he  was  one  of  those  boys  who  left  their  horses 
back  in  the  States  and  pushed  up  the  sand-soaked  hills  in 
front  of  Santiago,  the  once  coveted. 

But  there  is  one  scene  which  Old  Dad's  eyes  looked 
upon  when  they  were  not  dim — a  scene  which  appears 
again  when  his  pipe  is  lit  and  his  bunk  is  comfortable — a 
scene  and  a  story,  which  Dad  Evans  does  not  tell  except 
at  the  canteen,  when  his  month's  pay  flows  with  his 
words. 

Then  he  will  tell  you  about  Rain-in-the-Face,  the  ugliest 
of  the  Sioux,  and  the  craftiest  of  red  men,  and  about  the 
deserter  from  the  ranks  of  Uncle  Sam's  horsemen  who 
was  chained  to  him.  He  will  tell  you  how  Indians  fight, 


98  Red  Brennan  of  the  Seventh. 

how  impish  was  the  fury  of  their  squaws,  how  terrible 
their  numbers.  And  all  cavalrymen  forget  the  glasses  in 
their  hands  while  Dad  Evans  tells  how  the  field  looked, 
when  he  helped  to  bury  the  dead  of  Ouster's  band  way 
out  in  Montana  on  that  hot  June  day. 

Ask  any  old  cavalryman  what  kind  of  a  fellow  was  the 
Michigan  man  whom  the  Sioux  called  Yellow  Hair.  He 
was  a  soldier  they  will  say,  not  an  indulgent  officer,  but 
one  who  feared  nothing  living  or  dead.  It  was  Custer 
who  declared: 

"Give  me  my  regiment  and  I  will  lick  the  whole  Sioux 
Nation." 

Custer  was  tingling  to  make  his  name  illustrious  when 
he  uttered  those  words.  He  was  confident,  experienced — 
a  soldier  born.  He  did  not  think  then  that  his  regiment 
of  horsemen  would  ever  be  called  the  "Unlucky  Seventh." 
But  all  this  has  been  committed  to  memory  by  school  chil 
dren.  Here  is  the  story  of  Red  Brennan,  deserter,  once 
in  I  troop  of  Ouster's  command,  and  long  since  dead — the 
story  which  Dad  Evans  tells.  It  is  a  true  story,  for  Dad 
Evans,  who  saw  it  enacted,  says  so. 

Brennan  was  a  bad  man.  His  worst  enemies  were 
whisky  and  himself.  His  bunk  was  deserted  one  morn 
ing  at  reveille  roll-call,  and  his  troop  was  detached  to  hunt 
him  up.  The  boys  found  him  in  a  cave,  to  which  they 
were  led  by  an  Indian  scout.  Brennan  was  helplessly 
obfuscated,  probably  through  the  medium  of  unmellowed 
corn-juice.  The  Indian  scout  shuffled  about  the  cave  feel 
ing  and  smelling  things.  There  were  puzzling  circum- 


Red  Brennan  of  the  Seventh.  99 

stances  about.  Some  one  had  been  in  the  cave  with  Bren 
nan,  but  the  identity  of  this  party  was  an  opaque  mystery. 
Nothing  but  a  can  of  bear's  grease  was  found.  Squaws 
make  their  braids  shiny  with  bear's  grease.  A  soldier 
suggested  that  Kate  Poison-Water  had  perhaps  taken 
Brennan  for  her  paramour. 

When  the  prisoner  staggered  out  of  stupor,  he  was 
chained  to  Rain-in-the-Face,  sub-chief  of  the  Sioux.  At 
first  he  uttered  a  series  of  ejaculations  that  would  have 
plunged  an  army  mule  into  hysterics. 

******** 

Kate  Poison- Water  was  a  sort  of  De  Stael  among  the 
Sioux.  She  was  a  serpent  in  cunning,  a  tigress  in 
strength  and  agility — a  Sioux  squaw  in  general  deviltry. 
It  developed  that  Rain-in-the-Face  knew  her. 

Custer  was  in  a  land  ridden  with  red  men.  He  had  no 
near  reserve.  It  was  not  a  time  for  courtmartials.  Red 
Brennan  ate  and  slept,  but  did  not  become  chummy  with 
the  rising  buck.  They  were  together  until  the  day  when 
Reno  took  part  of  the  regiment  and  branched  off  to  the 
south.  Rain-in-the-Face  was  taken  with  Reno,  while 
Brennan  rejoined  his  troop  in  Ouster's  division.  It  is 
needless  to  say  in  whose  command  was  Dad  Evans,  for 
had  he  not  been  with  Reno  he  would  never  have  sipped 
canteen  beer  and  told  stories  these  times,  nor  would  he 
have  climbed  Cuban  hills  under  Mauser  fire. 

The  guard  in  charge  of  the  Sioux  prisoner  was  mur 
dered  in  the  night.  It  was  done  so  quietly  that  the  sentry, 
walking  his  post  fifty  yards  away,  heard  no  sound  and 


ioo          Red  Brennan  of  the  Seventh. 

saw  nothing.  Then  Dad  Evans  told  of  a  way  the  body 
was  mutilated — so  horrible  were  his  words  that  we  turned 
away  shuddering. 

"Only  a  squaw  does  the  trick,"  Evans  explained.  "We 
thought  Kate  Poison- Water  had  made  possible  the  escape 
of  Rain-in-the-Face,  because  of  the  manner  of  the  deed. 
This  idea  grew  upon  us.  Meanwhile,  that  day  of  history 
dawned." 

Ouster's  command  was  four  miles  from  Reno's  camp. 
Every  trooper  felt  that  there  were  hordes  of  red  men  in 
the  surrounding  foothills.  Not  a  white  man  guessed  their 
numbers.  The  Indian  scouts  were  puzzled  by  cross  trails. 
They  hugged  the  vanguard  and  could  not  be  pushed 
ahead.  The  troopers  were  attentive  and  quiet.  No  jests 
were  exchanged  that  morning.  The  sun  rose  high  and 
hot.  The  wind  blew  strong  and  fitfully.  No  steady  or 
rapid  firing  was  distinguishable  from  any  direction. 
Reno's  division  formed  skirmish  lines.  No.  4  in  each  set 
stayed  back  with  the  horses.  Ragged  volleys  were  poured 
down  upon  them  from  rocks  and  woody  places.  Few  of 
the  fours  lived  when  the  sun's  rays  were  slanting  that 
afternoon.  Camp  was  struck  at  sundown.  No  bacon 
sputtered  in  the  mess  tins,  and  weary  soldiers  rolled  them 
selves  in  their  blankets  without  a  smoke  that  night.  The 
Red  Cross  men  did  not  sleep. 

No  one  believed  the  courier  who  rode  into  camp  before 
midnight,  with  the  word  that  Custer  and  all  his  band  had 
been  slain  that  day  by  the  Sioux,  and  that  their  bodies 
lay  scattered  about  in  the  moonlight  four  miles  away. 


Red  Brennan  of  the  Seventh.          101 

Before  daybreak  Renews  men  were  on  the  march.  The 
silence  in  front  was  deathly  and  ominous.  Wary  and 
cautious  was  the  advance.  The  weird,  crooning  mono 
tone  of  the  Indian  death  song  was  not  heard,  nor  were 
cross  trails  encountered  this  day.  The  turf  was  marked 
with  mute  indications  of  a  hasty  flight.  The  scouts  hugged 
closely  the  forward  fours.  The  silence  frightened  them. 
An  odor  was  in  the  air  which  they  alone  distinguished. 
White  men  cannot  use  their  noses  like  animals. 

The  body  of  a  trooper,  gashed,  perforated  and  dismem 
bered,  was  strewn  across  the  line  of  march.  Hard  and 
unsmiling  were  the  faces  of  Reno's  cavalrymen  now. 
Signals  from  high  points  brought  back  no  answer  from 
Ouster's  corps.  The  troops  paused  again  to  cover  up  red 
stains  upon  the  earth.  The  words  of  the  courier  were 
now  partially  believed.  Great  and  awful  thoughts  were 
crawling  into  the  soldiers'  minds.  Where  was  Yellow 
Hair,  the  intrepid,  the  invincible?  Where  were  the  friends 
of  yesterday  ? 

More  blood  in  the  path.  Tainted  was  the  air  that  men 
breathed  and  ghastly  white  their  faces. 

A  low  hill  stretched  before  them.  Upon  its  summit 
shimmered  the  pitiless  heat.  Flies  buzzed  about  the 
sweating  horses,  and  great,  black  birds  made  circling 
shadows  beyond  the  hill. 

Soldiers  tried  not  to  breathe  the  sickening  air,  yet  they 
advanced.  Horror  and  fascination  enthralled  them. 
Countless  red  devils  might  be  marshaling  in  the  surround 
ing  hills,  yet  the  most  despicable  of  cowards  would  have 


102          Red  Brennan  of  the  Seventh. 

pressed  upward  that  day.  Still  persons  claim  to  be  above 
that  curiosity  which  is  morbid.  The  vanguard  rode  upon 
the  summit  of  the  hill  and  looked  down. 

For  a  moment  all  that  could  be  heard  was  the  droning 
of  the  myriad  insect  wings.  Then  to  the  ears  of  the  rear 
troopers  was  borne  the  murmur  of  curses  deep  and  dread 
ful. 

From  every  bush  arrows  had  whizzed  down  upon  that 
plain.  From  behind  every  rock  and  tree  a  crouching 
Sioux  had  glared  through  the  smoke  of  powder.  Squads 
of  painted,  yelling,  exultant  fiends  had  ridden  down  every 
passable  place  on  the  hills — yesterday. 

And  when  the  braves  had  left  no  horse  or  horseman 
standing,  young  bucks  trampled  the  white  faces  into  the 
earth  and  fired  into  the  prone  bodies.  And  when  their 
voices  were  hoarse  and  broken,  and  their  demon  desires 
satiated,  the  hideous,  mumbling  squaws,  more  inhuman 
than  any  in  venomous  hate,  had  stripped  the  suits  of  army 
blue  from  the  boys  no  longer  in  Uncle  Sam's  service. 
Then,  in  hellish  ecstasy,  they  used  their  knives. 

Meanwhile  the  braves  wrapped  up  their  dead  in  blankets 
and  tied  them  in  the  branches  of  larger  trees.  Not  until 
the  sunset  land  was  growing  dim  did  the  red  men  face 
toward  it  and  disappear.  They  were  very  happy. 

Reno's  cavalrymen  looked  down.  Great,  black  birds 
rose  and  hovered  over  the  plain.  The  sky  above  the  hills 
was  dotted  with  others — coming.  Dad  Evans  will  never 
forget  that  day. 

Not  a  vestige  of  individuality  remained  with  the  dead 


Red  Brennan  of  the  Seventh.  103 

upon  the  plain.  There  was  not  a  scalp — not  a  form  left 
intact,  save  two.  So  diabolical  was  the  work  that  it 
seemed  as  if  the  devil  in  a  black  humor  had  directed  it. 
Dad  Evans  told  things  that  would  not  do  here. 

In  the  centre  of  the  plain  they  found  a  prone  body  that 
had  not  been  stripped  or  mutilated.  The  broad  yellow 
stripe  of  a  cavalry  officer  was  upon  the  trousers.  An  of 
ficer's  blouse  covered  the  face.  The  Sioux  warriors  had 
crossed  the  sleeves  as  a  sign  that  the  body  should  be 
spared.  The  blouse  was  lifted  and  then  the  men  saw  the 
bold,  lean  face  of  their  commanding  officer.  The  cheek 
was  pressed  down,  and  the  long,  light  brown  curls  clus 
tered  about  it.  Not  a  hair  was  touched,  not  a  weapon 
taken. 

The  Sioux  braves  feared  the  living  Yellow  Hair.  They 
revered  him  dead.  It  was  a  moment  of  delicate  mystery. 
Thus  it  was  that  his  own  men  found  Custer,  the  soldier 
from  Michigan.  And  not  long  afterward  a  little  Mich 
igan  town  was  shrouded  in  crepe.  The  black  draperies 
have  been  lifted  these  many  years,  but  its  sable  shadow 
still  rests  in  the  hearts  of  the  people. 

Not  a  scalp  was  left  save  two.    There  was  another. 

"Don't  touch  him !"  It  was  a  squaw's  voice.  She  was 
wounded,  crazed,  dying.  She  raised  her  body  on  one 
hand  and  fought  off  Reno's  cavalrymen.  Below  her  was 
another  body  with  sleeves  crossed.  It  was  all  that  re 
mained  of  Red  Brennan,  deserter,  and  the  dying  squaw, 
Kate  Poison- Water,  was  fighting  for  it. 

Side  by  side  almost  lay  the  commanding  officer  and 


IO4          Red  Brennan  of  the  Seventh. 

the  man  from  the  ranks,  a  deserter  once.  These  alone 
out  of  many  troops  had  been  untouched  by  the  Sioux 
squaws. 

Kate  Poison- Water  slew  the  guard  and  released  Rain- 
in-the-Face,  the  soldiers  say,  so  that  the  sub-chief  might 
have  Red  Brennan  spared  in  the  projected  attack.  None 
but  the  Great  Spirit,  however,  could  have  saved  Red 
Brennan  that  day. 

Yes,  the  Sioux  was  a  happy  nation  when  they  re 
treated.  Their  craft  was  not  forgotten  and  the  trails  di 
verged.  One  was  two  miles  wide.  What  squadron  of 
cavalry  could  follow  such  a  trail  ? 

Rain-in-the-Face,  sub-chief  of  the  victorious  Sioux, 
lived  to  glower  into  the  faces  of  distinguished  Eastern 
audiences. 

And  old  Dad  Evans,  who  helped  to  bury  the  dead 
among  feasting  vultures  on  that  hot  June  day,  still  sips 
canteen  beer  and  tells  stories. 


A  Soldier  of  Misfortune. 


A  SOLDIER  OF  MISFORTUNE. 


Nobody  loved  Duffie.  Anyway  not  until  he  went  to 
Porto  Rico.  None  of  the  boys  cared  a  rap  for  him  even 
then.  Yet  Duffie  was  a  good  soldier — a  man  who  is  al 
ways  sober  enough  to  answer  calls,  keep  his  equipments 
polished,  and  his  face  shaved  is  a  good  soldier.  At 
least  from  an  officer's  point  of  view,  and  that's  what 
counts.  But  like  many  another  choice  spirit,  Private  Duf 
fie  was  totally  devoid  of  those  twin  faculties,  which  show 
off  one's  better  side  and  make  friends.  And  since  this 
trooper  possessed  the  added  misfortune  of  being  ugly  to 
look  upon,  his  fellow  soldiers  took  no  trouble  to  sound 
him  for  a  better  side. 

Duffie  had  never  been  able  to  say  the  proper  thing  at 
the  proper  time,  so  he  did  what  was  next  best — kept  his 
mouth  shut.  This  became  a  habit  with  him  in  early  life. 
Now  a  silent  man  is  not  wanted  for  a  "bunkie"  in  Uncle 
Sam's  cavalry. 

Duffie  gambled  also — a  soldierly  trait,  and  one  which 
would  hurt  no  man's  reputation  in  his  troop,  but  since  he 
won  calmly,  steadily  and  silently,  he  was  not  asked  to  sit 
at  every  pay-day  game.  Next  to  Duffie's  silence,  his  worst 


no  A  Soldier  of  Misfortune. 

trait  in  the  trooper's  eyes  was  that  he  did  not  spend  his 
gains. 

And  the  natural  sequence  of  all  these  things  was  that 
not  one  of  his  eighty-odd  fellows  shed  tears  when  Duffle 
left  the  troop  with  his  final  statements  in  his  pocket,  and 
a  record  of  thirteen  years  in  the  service — thirteen  honest, 
faithful,  clean  years.  It  was  not  until  Duffle  and  his 
bundle  were  lost  in  the  coffee  shrubs  which  bordered  the 
trail  down  into  Corizel  that  the  troop  clerk  told  one  of  the 
sergeants  that  Duffle's  final  statements  called  for  a  cool 
thousand,  Americano  Diner  o.  When  the  men  heard  this 
they  told  each  other  that  they  were  well  rid  of  Duff,  his 
"system,"  his  silence,  and  his  "ugly  phiz." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Duffle's  gambling  methods  were  as 
honest  as  his  clear,  gray  eyes.  And  if  his  other  two  five- 
year  enlistments  had  been  looked  up  his  old  fellows 
would  have  said  that  he  quit  their  outfits  with  only  a 
month's  pay  in  his  clothes;  and  that  he  was  as  hopeless 
a  drunkard  and  as  reckless  a  spender  as  any  good  trooper 
is  supposed  to  be.  They  would  say,  too,  that  he  left  few 
friends  and  no  debts  behind. 

Duffle,  walking  down  the  trail,  communed  with  him 
self  and  was  not  unhappy.  On  his  discharge  paper,  after 
the  printed  word  "CHARACTER"  his  captain  had  written 
"excellent,"  and  the  troop  physician  had  scrawled  the  same 
word  after  "PHYSICAL  CONDITION  WHEN  DISCHARGED/' 
By  the  paper  we  might  learn  also  that  his  hair  was  red, 
his  eyes  gray  and  his  age  thirty-five.  And  everybody 


A  Soldier  of  Misfortune.  in 

knows  that  Duffie  upon  showing  his  discharge,  could  re- 
enlist  in  any  outfit  in  the  service. 

This  wasn't  his  idea.  He  had  money.  He  vowed  that 
he  would  touch  no  drink  until  he  reached  the  States — 
hence  he  would  have  money  then — enough  to  be  a  civilian. 
But  there  was  a  secret  in  the  brain  of  the  discharged 
cavalryman  that  day — a  pleasant,  thrilling  secret,  more 
important  by  far  than  the  finals  which  would  be  cashed  in 
San  Juan,  more  important  than  the  captain's  estimate  of 
his  character.  It  was  the  secret  which  creeps  into  the 
brain  and  heart  of  every  soldier  some  day;  and  many 
are  the  army  men  who  would  have  died  in  the  Soldiers' 
Home  were  it  not  for  its  spell. 

Now  any  person  who  has  been  in  Porto  Rico  will  tell 
you  that  the  native  senoritas  have  wonderful  eyes.  The 
American  soldier  who  did  not  become  impressed  with 
this  fact  during  his  first  hour  on  shore,  was  either  on 
sick  report  at  the  time  or  else  he  landed  in  the  night.  A 
close  observer  will  tell  you  also  that  the  wonderful  eyes 
of  the  Porto  Rican  senoritas  dwell  lingeringly  upon  the 
length  and  breadth  and  toughness  of  American  manhood 
clad  in  army  blue.  All  of  which  couldn't  be  otherwise. 

The  point  is  that  Senorita  Euphrasie,  the  dark,  delicate 
and  dreamy-eyed,  should  look  into  the  plain  face  of 
Trooper  Duffle,  and  care  to  look  again.  This  was  strange, 
certainly.  Perhaps  the  Corizel  maiden  saw  something  in 
those  clear,  gray  eyes  which  no  American  woman,  save 
the  mother  of  her  boy,  had  ever  seen;  something  which 
no  fellow-trooper  cared  to  know  about,  since  Duffie  was 


ii2  A  Soldier  of  Misfortune. 

too  clumsy  of  speech  to  speak  what  was  in  him.  Gradu 
ally  in  the  cavalryman's  brain  the  secret  grew.  It  impart 
ed  a  sensation,  which  the  lonely  trooper  never  dreamed 
would  come  to  him.  For  Duffie  knew  he  was  not  hand 
some  to  look  upon.  It  made  him  feel  less  of  a  drunkard 
and  more  of  a  man.  It  made  him  hate  the  service  in  time 
of  peace — a  woman's  influence  has  done  this  ever  since 
armies  have  been.  In  short,  this  secret  buoyed  up  to  sur 
face  water  all  the  brighter,  better  elements  in  Duffie's 
nature.  And  Senorita  Euphrasie  saw  the  brighter  side, 
knew  that  it  was  for  her — and  was  a  very  happy  little 
maiden. 

Meanwhile  Duffie's  halting  tongue  struggled  with 
Spanish  expressions,  but  her  eyes  told  Euphrasie  more 
which  she  wanted  to  know;  and  in  her  turn,  Euphrasie 
repeated  English  words  from  the  cavalryman's  lips — 
words  which  those  lips  had  never  uttered  before.  And 
the  day  drew  nearer  which  would  end  Duffie's  "soldier 
ing"  forever. 

The  one  desire  of  the  discharged  trooper  as  he  descend 
ed  the  trail  into  Corizel — apart  from  the  will  and  pleasure 
of  Senorita  Euphrasie — was  to  see  once  more  his  native 
land.  This  is  the  heart's  desire  of  every  trooper  and  in 
fantryman  in  Porto  Rico  to-day!  That  afternoon,  when 
for  the  first  time  in  three  years  he  was  a  free  man,  Duffie 
told  the  Corizel  maiden  of  the  wonderful  land  over  the 
sea,  of  the  great  cities,  and  of  the  white,  frozen  showers 
which  fall  in  the  Northland.  He  told  her  of  his  old 
mother  who  would  love  her,  even  as  she  loved  her  son. 


A  Soldier  of  Misfortune.  113 

Poor  Duffie  did  not  know  well  of  that  which  he  spoke. 
And  Euphrasie  believed  his  words.  She  would  have  fol 
lowed  him  through  the  dreariest  of  the  world's  distances — 
to  his  home. 

Duffie  will  never  forget  the  enchantment  of  that  night. 
Faintly  from  the  quarters  up  the  trail  was  borne  the  bugle 
call  for  retreat.  The  man  heard  the  distant  scream  of 
the  trumpet,  but  he  only  held  Euphrasie  closer.  It  was  a 
weird  sensation  for  the  soldier-no-longer.  The  sergeant 
would  not  call  his  name  that  night.  Duffie's  heart  held 
no  regret — it  held  nothing  that  moment  but  the  image  of 
the  woman  into  whose  eyes  he  gazed,  while  the  mount 
ing  moon  scattered  the  twilight  in  the  low  southeast.  How 
happy  would  those  two  have  been  if  the  man  felt  not  the 
beckoning  of  his  native  shores,  and  the  yearning  of  his 
mother's  heart! 

The  next  day  Euphrasie  left  Corizel  and  the  orange- 
perfumed  slopes — lingered  one  last  moment  to  listen  to 
the  song  of  the  mountain  river,  then  journeyed  thither 
toward  San  Juan — el  capital — with  her  husband. 

A  white  man  cannot  disregard  social  usages  where 
other  white  men  are.  No,  not  even  if  he  is  a  self-support 
ing  institution.  It  matters  not  the  slightest  whether  a 
man  cares  more  for  a  look  from  his  wife  than  for  a  grasp 
upon  the  throttle  of  the  mammoth  social  engine.  If  Duffie 
had  known  the  woes  of  the  man  who  dares  transgress 
upon  unconventional  boundaries — the  woes  of  even  a  poor 
ex-soldier — he  could  not  have  been  driven  from  the  isl- 


H4  A  Soldier  of  Misfortune. 

and  where  there  are  few  white  people,  and  therefore  few 
conventionalities. 

It  was  hardly  a  question  of  color,  for  Euphrasie  was 
not  dark.  Indeed,  had  she  possessed  the  power  to  sell  the 
richness  and  softness  from  her  skin,  she  would  have 
realized  enougfn  to  live  luxuriously  for  life.  But  Eu 
phrasie  wore  no  hat,  only  a  shawl.  Her  gowns  were 
very  pretty  for  her  own  summer  land,  but  they  would 
not  have  suited  an  American  woman.  She  spoke  little 
English.  But  a  thousand  times  worse  than  anything  else 
— she  was  the  wife  of  a  common  enlisted  man!  And 
there  were  wives  of  commissioned  officers  on  the  trans 
port! 

Everything  was  done  so  quickly  in  San  Juan.  A  ship 
bound  for  the  States  was  in  the  harbor.  Before  Duffle 
had  cashed  his  finals,  the  sailing  flag  was  hoisted.  He 
had  barely  time  to  get  his  wife  on  board.  He  realized 
vaguely  that  Euphrasie  needed  woolen  clothing  and  much 
of  it,  before  leaving  a  tropical  island  for  a  land  of  winter. 
But  how  was  he,  who  knew  nothing  which  pertained  not 
to  an  enlisted  man's  life,  supposed  to  realize  in  a  moment 
that  there  are  such  things  as  officers'  wives  and  conven 
tionalities  on  a  transport? 

Euphrasie  was  a  timid  maiden.  So  many  soldiers 
frightened  her,  and,  worse  than  that,  she  perceived  that 
her  husband  was  uneasy,  too.  His  knowledge  of  Spanish 
fled  from  him. 

And  the  American  ladies  up  on  the  pure  white  bridge, 
and  on  the  saloon  deck,  where  none  but  the  shoulder- 


A  Soldier  of  Misfortune.  115 

strapped  and  their  ladies  walked — these  women  turned 
their  eyes  from  the  Porto  Rican  city,  which  was  vanish 
ing  behind  harbor  mists,  and  they  saw  the  timid  native 
maiden,  shrinking  close  to  the  form  of  a  big  enlisted  man, 
whose  face  was  not  pleasant. 

Then  one  of  these  American  ladies  voiced  the  senti 
ments  of  the  rest — God  forgive  them — and  it  was  the 
master  of  the  ship  who  was  forced  to  hear  her  say  that 
she  would  not  eat  at  the  same  table  with  any  native 
maiden;  that  she  thought  it  was  an  outrage  for  an  en 
listed  man  to  dare  bring  such  a  woman  on  a  ship  with 
American  ladies ;  that  she  for  one  would  at  least  see  that 
such  a  woman  staid  in  the  part  of  the  ship  she  deserved. 
The  captain  of  the  ship,  being  a  commissioned  officer,  the 
same  as  this  lady's  husband — well,  what  could  he  do  but 
admire  Duffie's  good  taste  and  refuse  him  a  state-room 
for  his  wife?  How  could  he  furnish  her  meals  the  same 
as  saloon  passengers  ? 

Far  more  than  Euphrasie  did  the  big  ex-cavalryman, 
the  silent  man,  suffer,  because  the  Corizel  maiden  had  to 
sleep  down  in  the  hammock-hold  with  the  soldiers.  Little, 
indeed,  did  she  mind  eating  army  rations,  for  women  in 
her  land  eat  little  at  best;  but  her  husband's  face  grew 
white  when  he  thought  of  all  these  things,  and  there  was 
a  nasty  gleam  in  his  gray  eyes. 

In  a  canvas  hammock,  down  in  the  dirty  hold  of  a 
transport,  surrounded  by  scores  of  men,  rough  and  un 
educated,  lots  of  them — yet  Euphrasie,  the  wife,  was  just 
as  safe  as  she  ever  had  been  among  her  own  native  hills. 


Ti6  A  Soldier  of  Misfortune. 

Yes,  they  were  rough  and  uneducated,  lots  of  them,  but 
they  were  Americans  and  soldiers;  and  they  had  heard 
what  the  women  up  on  the  bridge  had  told  the  master 
of  the  ship. 

In  the  forward  hold  the  men  cursed  carelessly  and 
without  restraint,  cursed  and  gambled  and  sang  soldier 
songs ;  but  in  the  rear,  where  Euphrasie  was,  they  walked 
on  tip-toe  and  talked  in  whispers  while  she  slept.  And  the 
ex-cavalryman  who  loved  her,  thanked  his  fellows  one 
and  all  with  his  eyes.  The  Porto  Rican  maiden  was  not 
among  gentlemen — they  were  all  upon  the  saloon  deck 
with  their  ladies.  Euphrasie's  companions  were  only  a 
lot  of  common  men  from  the  ranks. 

******** 

Everybody  knows  what  a  winter  gale  off  Hatteras  is. 
The  most  treacherous  bit  of  sea  water  on  the  Atlantic  lies 
here.  Vessels  from  tropical  isles  veer  hundreds  of  miles 
seaward  to  avoid  the  Northern  Carolina  gales,  and  those 
who  have  lived  long  under  a  torrid  sun  shrink  from  the 
first  blast  of  winter.  Up  on  the  bridge  and  saloon  decks 
the  American  ladies,  wrapped  in  furs,  emerged  from  their 
state-rooms  and  set  their  faces  toward  the  icy  winds.  And 
Euphrasie  in  her  summer  gowns  shivered  and  coughed 
down  in  the  chilly  hold. 

Duffie  would  tell  her  that  there  was  no  winter  in  the 
great  Southwest  where  his  home  was.  And  the  dark, 
dreamy  eyes  of  the  Corizel  maiden  would  grow  wondrous 
bright  when  she  heard  her  husband  tell  of  his  old  mother, 
who  would  love  her,  and  of  the  little  store  they  would 


A  Soldier  of  Misfortune.  117 

start  near  some  army  post,  and  sell  tobacco  and  cigarettes 
and  other  things  the  soldiers  liked.  When  no  one  was 
looking  Duffle  would  show  his  senora  the  great  roll  of 
American  money,  with  which  he  would  buy  her  warm 
clothing  and  lots  of  nice  things  in  New  York.  There 
would  be  no  cold  or  suffering  for  Euphrasie  after  that ! 

When  the  hammock  shook  with  the  maiden's  coughing, 
as  the  transport  tumbled  along  the  Northern  Carolina 
coast,  Duffle  would  wrap  his  big,  yellow-lined  cavalry 
overcoat  more  closely  about  her  throat,  and  his  face  be 
came  more  haggard  and  white,  but  there  was  naught  but 
tenderness  in  his  eyes  now.  Meanwhile,  the  gale  grew 
noisy,  and  ice  thickened  on  the  hurricane  deck. 

Two  days'  run  from  New  York,  and  there  was  a  dark 
flush  upon  Euphrasie's  cheek.  Her  forehead  was  burning, 
and  the  soldiers  stepped  softly  in  the  hold.  And  in  the 
night  the  Porto  Rican  maiden  clung  fast  to  her  husband's 
hand,  and  murmured  words  about  Corizel  and  love.  There 
was  a  reddish  glow  in  her  dark  eyes,  like  a  flame  shining 
through  a  black  density  of  smoke.  They  were  turned 
immovably  upon  the  white,  horrified  face  of  her  husband, 
and  she  spoke  his  name. 

About  the  time  the  ice-crusted  ship  was  sighted  off 
the  Atlantic  Highlands  two  fever  convalescents  died  of 
pneumonia  in  the  forward  hold — died  within  sight  of  the 
land  of  their  soldier  dreams. 

And  while  the  transport  steamed  around  Sandy  Hook 
the  hand  of  the  Porto  Rican  maiden  slipped  from  Duffle's 
grasp. 


n8  A  Soldier  of  Misfortune. 

The  commissioned  officers  stood  by  the  vessel's  side  in 
the  pier  and  kept  the  soldiers  back  until  the  American 
ladies  had  tripped  down  the  gangway.  And  one  of  the 
ladies  saw  two  gray  eyes  riveted  upon  her  that  wild  win 
ter's  day.  She  remembered  those  eyes  and  the  hideous 
pallor  of  the  man's  face  for  many  long  nights  afterward, 
which  was  well. 

What  Duffie  did  the  next  ten  days  any  soldier  will 
guess.  At  the  end  of  that  time  he  sent  what  money  there 
was  left  to  his  old  mother  down  in  Texas.  And  not  long 
after  that  he  set  out  for  the  other  side  of  the  world  to 
join  his  regiment  in  Manila. 

Such  is  the  story  of  a  flower  from  a  summer  land — a 
flower  which  withered  beneath  the  icy  breath.  And  the 
heart  of  Trooper  Duffie,  soldier  of  misfortune,  withered 
with  it. 


Shadow  and  the  Cherub. 


SHADOW  AND  THE  CHERUB. 


The  first  time  I  saw  Shadow  was  the  night  the  Fifth 
pulled  out  for  Porto  Rico.  Shadow  was  a  dusky  kid  of 
quality,  and  he  now  wears  a  cavalryman's  blouse  and  a 
shirt  of  army  blue.  How  this  came  about  involves  the 
prejudices  of  a  nation. 

Shadow  was  not  old  enough  to  be  subservient.  The 
knowledge  that  he  was  black  had  never  hurt  him  yet. 
But  his  father  was  a  son  of  slavery,  and  his  father's 
father,  so  in  Shadow's  nature  there  was  mildness  and 
long-suffering,  and  in  his  back  a  bow  to  people  with 
white  faces.  It  was  a  bow,  not  a  cringe — a  pleasant  sensa 
tion  of  obeying,  not  fawning  humility. 

But  cavalrymen  from  the  land  where  cotton  blooms, 
and  persimmon  trees  flourish  in  every  strip  of  woodland, 
make  no  distinction.  And  many  are  the  cavalrymen  in 
Uncle  Sam's  service  who  hail  from  localities  where 
negroes  are  hired  now,  and  hated.  But  there  are  others 
who  punched  cattle  and  straddled  cow-ponies  west  of  the 
Mississippi  and  not  so  far  south  as  the  Rio  Grande ;  and 
others  still  who  lived  once  where  negroes  are  seldom 


124      Shadow  and  the  Cherub. 

seen,  and  are  liked  for  their  jollity  and  devil-take-care-of- 
to-morrow  dispositions.  And  these  took  notice  of  Shadow 
in  spite  of  black  looks  and  murmurings. 

There  was  a  funny  twinkle  in  his  dark  eyes  and  a  won 
dering  pucker  in  his  full  red  lips.  Old  Chicken,  the  far 
rier,  first  took  him  under  his  wing.  It  was  the  night  be 
fore  leaving  the  States,  and  the  regiment  had  been  paid 
earlier  in  the  day. 

Now  every  officer  knows  that  a  common  soldier  works 
with  greatest  dispatch  and  efficiency  when  broke.  It  was 
a  grand  demonstration  of  mettle  that  the  cavalrymen  gave 
that  day.  Each  man  assisted  in  pushing  frightened  and 
fractious  horses  up  a  steep  gangway,  and  in  loading  moun 
tains  of  heavy  luggage  on  the  transports  for  many  hours 
— and  all  under  the  strain  of  a  cavalryman's  thirst  with 
a  month's  pay  in  his  pocket. 

Everything  was  ready  when  night  came,  except  the 
blessed  tide.  It  would  be  four  hours  at  least,  the  sailors 
said,  before  the  troop-ship  dare  cross  the  bar.  Had  it  not 
been  for  this  mysterious  and  accommodating  element  the 
Fiftn  Cavalry  would  have  lugged  their  whole  month's 
pay  about  cheerlessly  throughout  a  long  voyage.  This 
would  have  been  unprecedented.  It  would  have  been 
positively  uncanny. 

"It's  dangerous  to  let  them  go,"  one  lieutenant  said; 
"some  will  never  come  back." 

"Let  them  go,"  said  an  old  captain,  who  had  risen  from 
the  ranks,  and  who  was  no  stranger  to  pity. 


Shadow  and  the  Cherub.  125 

"You  ought  to  know,  captain,  how  duty  looks  and  time 
passes  to  a  soldier  on  pay-day,"  the  lieutenant  replied 
weakly.  He  was  talking  to  his  superior  officer. 

"Let  them  go,"  repeated  the  captain,  and  the  boys 
went  to  town  with  money  intact  and  great  responsibilities 
tingling  in  their  breasts.  All  came  back  save  one,  who 
was  not  a  drinking  man,  and  who  had  lost  a  sweetheart 
back  in  San  Anton',  but  not  in  Porto  Rico. 

It  was  in  those  four  hours  that  Old  Chicken  found 
Shadow.  The  first  time  I  saw  him  was  a  half  hour  be 
fore  the  time  of  embarkation.  He  was  sitting  in  the  dark 
ness  on  the  lee  side  of  the  great  ship.  Above  him  flick 
ered  meaningless  lights  and  a  shadowy  mystery  of  ropes 
and  rigging.  Below  him  the  chocolate-hued  Savannah 
playfully  slapped  the  big  piers  and  the  transport's  plated 
sides.  Beyond  him  lay  the  sea,  trackless,  dark  and  vast. 

Two  large  bottles  of  something  protruded  from 
Shadow's  blouse.  Smaller  bottles  of  something  protrud 
ed  from  Shadow's  many  pockets.  Hampers  of  other  good 
things  surrounded  him;  and,  very  strange  to  tell,  Wild 
Bill,  the  most  dissolute  and  prodigal  of  troop  tom-cats, 
purred  cozily  upon  his  lap. 

But  most  inconceivable  of  all  was  the  attitude  of 
Cherub,  the  untamable — Cherub,  the  vicious  and  massive- 
jawed  bloodhound — for  several  years  a  chattel  of  Troop 
K.  Cherub's  hatred  for  civilians  was  depthless  and 
dreadful. 

Then  why  should  he  put  his  great,  ugly  head  upon 
Shadow's  lap  and  there  rest  so  quietly  and  peaceably? 


126  Shadow  and  the  Cherub. 

"Yo  an'  me  is  dun  'guine  to  Porto  Ric,  an'  pussie-tom 
and  Old  Chick  is  dun  'guine.  Doan'  shake  yo'  big  hade 
dat-a-way.  I  is  aguine  cos  Old  Chick  dun  sade  I  could. 
We  alls  'guine  to  Porto  Ric,  and  de  horses." 

Shadow's  head  was  very  close  to  Cherub's  jaws  while 
he  was  muttering  these  words.  Then  he  began  to  croon 
a  quaint  melody  which  the  Old  Mammy  days  had  left  be 
hind  in  his  kinky  head.  Cherub  yawned  in  lazy  content 
ment,  Wild  Bill  purred  hoarsely,  and  I  watched,  wonder 
ing. 

Meanwhile  the  cavalrymen  returned  with  laughter  and 
great  happiness.  Then  the  big  troop-ship  cast  her  log  and 
veered  seaward.  There  were  shouts  but  no  sentiment. 
Good  cavalrymen — the  ones  who  win  chevrons  in  their 
first  enlistment — have  no  sentiment.  A  recruit  possessed 
of  sentiment  will  lose  it  in  the  first  three  months,  or  else 
apply  for  his  discharge. 

There  was  much  of  this  element  in  Shadow's  nature. 
The  horsemen,  with  their  spurs,  six-shooters  and  sabers, 
made  a  deep  impression.  A  queer,  dreamy  look  was  in 
his  eyes  as  he  gazed  out  to  sea  and  hummed  softly,  while 
a  tiny  gale  from  the  tropics  zipped  merrily  by.  The  little 
dusky  boy  was  glad  that  he  met  Old  Chick,  the  farrier, 
glad  that  he  was  with  such  "strong,  big  men" — vaguely 
glad  that  he  lived.  Cherub,  the  bloodhound,  growled  at 
the  wind  and  glared  at  the  sea  and  kept  close  to  Shadow's 
side.  Wild  Bill  cuddled  closely. 

"Here,  nigger,  take  hold  of  this  mop  and  scrub  out. 


Shadow  and  the  Cherub.  127 

That's  all  you  people  are  good  for  anyway.  Grab  a  root, 
and  grab  it  quick." 

This  was  only  part  of  what  the  sergeant  from  the  South 
said  the  first  morning  out.  The  whole  was  more  brutal. 
The  sergeant  was  sick  from  the  sea  and  sick  from  the 
night  before  on  land.  We,  from  the  North,  saw  Shadow's 
trouble  and  tried  to  put  him  right.  But  something  went 
wrong  in  the  dusky  boy's  mind  that  morning  which  we 
could  not  put  right. 

You  have  all  read  of  transport  horrors.  Perhaps  you 
have  heard,  too,  of  the  sufferings  of  the  splendid  troop 
horses  and  about  the  troopers  themselves  on  a  voyage. 

Where  the  air  is  scented  with  sage  brush  and  the  eyes 
smart  with  alkali;  from  the  blizzards  of  Dakota  and  the 
sun-baked  plains  of  Texas — the  cavalrymen  come.  They 
are  landsmen.  They  march  through  dust-clouds  ancl  race 
through  rainstorm,  but  they  droop  when  on  board  a 
rolling  ship.  Their  bowed  legs  fit  equally  well  to  the  back 
of  a  mustang  or  a  Wales,  but  they  will  not  adjust  them 
selves  to  a  swaying  hurricane  deck. 

Twenty  feet  below  the  surface  of  the  sea  are  the  air 
tight  and  cold  storage  compartments.  Other  compart 
ments,  where  hundreds  of  hammocks  are  swung  in  tiers, 
are  above  this.  When  the  hatches  are  closed  this  second 
deck  is  also  air-tight.  Here  600  cavalrymen  sleep.  A 
sheet-iron  flooring  above  them  forms  the  bottom  of  the 
stables,  and  the  steel-shod  hoofs  of  the  troop  horses  make 
a  din  for  the  ears  of  those  below  like  that  of  many  boiler 


128  Shadow  and  the  Cherub. 

factories.  Another  tier  of  horses,  and  then  one  sees  the 
daylight  and  feels  the  ocean  breeze. 

Ten  hours  in  the  black  hole  would  kill  horses  and  some 
people  of  olden  times,  but  it  only  gives  headaches  to 
American  cavalrymen.  It  was  sad,  though,  to  watch  the 
men  trying  to  put  nerve  and  strength  in  the  horses  they 
loved — the  drooping,  dying  troop-horses.  It  was  very 
sad  to  see  the  animals  hang  their  heads  out  into  the 
draughtless  passageway,  and  distend  wider  their  crimson 
nostrils.  Their  eyes  were  filmy  and  opaque — very  un 
natural  and  pitiful,  and  their  lower  lips  hung  low  and 
quivered  on  the  fourth  day  out. 

Then  the  hoisting-gear  became  very  busy,  and  men 
grew  sick  when  they  heard  the  rattle  of  loosening  chains 
and  so  many  loud  splashes  from  the  sea  below.  Five 
days  out,  and  there  was  more  room  in  the  stables  for  the 
suffocating:  troop  horses  still  on  their  feet.  Their  limbs 
were  swollen  now  and  stiff.  The  air  in  the  stables  was 
deathly  and  heavy. 

"Another  horse  down !"  cries  the  stable  guard,  and  the 
hoisting-gear  creaks  again. 

A  strange,  ugly  mood  possessed  Cherub,  the  blood 
hound,  these  days.  He  refused  food,  and  was  often  heard 
growling  ominously  from  dark  places.  He  occasionally 
walked  the  upper  deck,  but  was  a  friend  to  no  one  except 
Shadow.  Long  after  taps,  when  all  save  ship  lights  were 
out,  and  the  cavalrymen  swung  and  sweltered  in  their 
hammocks,  Cherub  was  heard  growling  and  skulking 
about  in  the  darkness.  And  his  eyes  shone  with  a  baleful 


Shadow  and  the  Cherub.  129 

glitter.  Then  Shadow  would  go  to  him,  and  for  a  time 
Cherub  would  rest. 

The  dusky;  boy  was  sad.  The  sentiment  had  been 
torn  from  him  and  an  ugly  wound  was  left  behind.  For 
the  men  from  the  North,  Shadow  would  have  been  a 
martyr.  The  others  he  feared  and  tried  bravely  to  serve. 

"Shadow's  no  good  on  dis  ship,"  he  said  on  the  morn 
ing  of  the  fifth  day.  "We  hated — can't  do  right — pussy's 
tom's  cross  an'  Cherub's  crazy  sick — ought  to  be  back — 
wiv'  the  niggers." 

Many  a  sob  with  the  preceding  made  it  almost  inco 
herent.  It  was  no  morbid  melancholy,  but  a  helpless, 
hopeless  expression  of  grief.  No  man  would  have  smiled 
had  he  been  present — poor  little  heartbroken  Shadow ! 

Even  as  I  was  thinking  of  men,  black  and  white,  the 
souls  unsoiled,  my  ears  were  filled  with  the  roar  of  a 
brute.  It  came  from  the  deck  below.  There  was  some 
thing  hideous  and  fear-inspiring  about  it.  I  never  heard 
such  -a  sound.  Cherub  never  made  such  a  sound  before. 
Yet  I  knew  it  came  from  his  throat. 

The  cavalrymen  lounging  and  laughing  upon  deck  stood 
erect  now  and  felt  for  the  six-shooters  in  their  belts.  But 
the  weapons  were  all  stacked  below  in  the  hammock  com 
partment  by  special  order.  Again  was  heard  the  cry  of 
a  tortured  beast.  Shadow  moved  toward  the  sound  very 
slowly.  Soldiers  and  sailors  were  running  and  shouting 
on  the  deck  below. 

"Cherub  is  mad !    Shoot  the  brute !  Look  out  up  there !" 


130      Shadow  and  the  Cherub. 

All  these  words  we  heard.  Then  Cherub  dashed  up  the 
companionvvay,  his  chains  dragging  behind.  His  fangs 
were  horrible  to  see. 

A  sailor  in  his  way  was  thrown  over,  and  to-clay  there 
is  an  ugly  scar  on  his  throat.  Others  were  bitten.  Shadow 
was  speaking  in  a  low  voice  we  could  not  understand. 
The  bloodhound  and  the  boy  were  close  together.  We, 
who  were  watching,  shuddered.  Slowly,  cautiously,  a 
dark  hand  moved  out  and  grasped  the  chain.  The  red, 
flashing  orbs  of  the  brute  lowered  from  Shadow's  gaze. 
We  hoped  no  more  when  the  bloodhound  growled. 

Without  haste,  seemingly,  the  dark  hand  holding  the 
chain  moved  toward  the  halyards.  The  ringers  worked 
swiftly  for  a  moment,  but  how  long  it  seemed  to  us ! 

Then  like  a  flash  Shadow  was  beyond  the  length  of  the 
chain,  and  laughing  like  one  whose  nerve  is  gone.  Cherub 
beat  his  body  upon  the  deck  and  upon  the  halyards. 

We  were  in  the  tropics  where  there  is  no  cure  for 
canine  madness ;  Cherub  did  not  roar  or  suffer  long,  and 
for  him  Shadow,  who  loved  all  things  small  and  great, 
wept  long. 

But  out  of  that  grief  there  came  to  the  heart  of  the 
little  dusky  boy  a  joy  sweet  and  lasting,  for  somehow  the 
men  from  the  South  who  stood  upon  the  hurricane  deck 
that  day  forgot  pride  and  prejudice. 

And  now  the  troop  is  scouring  the  mist-hung  hills  of 
Porto  Rico— peering  into  caves,  and  searching  lonely 
highland  shacks — for  Spaniards  who  were  once  soldiers 
and  now  guerrillas. 


Shadow  and  the  Cherub.  131 

Shadow  is  with  them,  and  there  is  not  a  horseman  in 
the  troop  who  would  not  charge  through  leaden  hail  to 
save  him  from  harm.  And  only  when  the  men  talk  of 
Cherub,  the  vicious  and  massive-jawed,  does  the  darkey 
boy  look  away  and  seem  unhappy. 


Back  to  San  Anton'. 


BACK  TO  SAN  ANTON'. 


Nobody  thought  that  old  Geldez  would  remember  the 
thrashing  Mulgowan  gave  him.  Not  a  man  in  the  troop 
would  have  given  old  Geldez  credit  for  fiendish  contriv- 
ings.  It  wasn't  because  he  was  a  drunken  wretch  and  a 
beggar  by  nature  that  made  the  boys  hate  him.  Old 
Geldez  was  a  greaser,  which  implies  everything  weakly, 
malevolent  and  detestable,  and  it  was  said  that  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  beating  the  little  maiden  of  dark  eyes  who 
called  him  father.  A  civilian  greaser  was  old  Geldez — 
what  could  be  more  despised  ? 

Yet  many  a  pay-day  would  have  known  no  muscal,  and 
been  correspondingly  cheerless,  had  it  not  been  for  old 
Geldez,  who  often  weighted  his  boat  down  with  Mexican 
wines  and  paddled  softly  across  the  Rio  Grande,  with  no 
body  watching  but  the  moon,  all  of  which  is  contrary  to 
the  laws  of  a  mighty  nation.  It  is  true  that  the  troopers 
paid  many  prices  to  the  greaser,  but  muscal  is  cheap  at 
any  cost  on  pay-days. 

Now  Mulgowan  was  a  sergeant  in  rank,  but  at  heart 
he  was  never  anything  but  a  private  and  the  prince  of 
good  fellows.  Because  he  could  vault  the  highest  horse 
in  the  troop  and  make  no  specialty  of  it ;  because  he  could 


136  Back  to  San  Anton'. 

fight  like  a  demon  and  yet  did  not  make  it  a  pastime,  and 
because  he  was  a  wizard  with  a  six-shooter  and  a  whirl 
wind  with  a  saber,  Mulgowan  was  a  very  popular  cavalry 
man. 

So  when  Geldez  swore  gruffly  at  the  little  maiden  of 
dark  eyes  one  pay-day,  while  the  boys  were  drinking  mus- 
cal  in  his  place,  Mulgowan  was  only  praised  because  he 
kicked  the  greaser  out  of  his  own  door.  Indeed  the  boys 
were  so  facetious  about  the  affair  that  Mulgowan  felt 
called  upon  to  crack  a  fresh  bottle  of  wine.  He  filled  all 
the  glasses  himself  and  then  toasted  the  maiden  of  dark 
eyes  with  all  the  tenderness  which  much  wine  and  natural 
gentility  could  put  into  words. 

About  this  time  the  ugly  face  of  old  Geldez  peered 
through  the  window.  It  was  so  ugly  in  its  pallid  rage  that 
Mulgowan's  hand  felt  instinctively  for  the  six-shooter  in 
his  belt.  It  was  so  very  ugly  and  white  that  the  maiden 
of  dark  eyes  threw  her  bare,  brown  arms  about  Mul 
gowan's  neck  and  wept  just  as  white  women  do.  And 
then  Mulgowan  became  very  red  because  he  did  not  know 
much  about  such  proceedings,  but  he  kissed  the  little  Mex 
ican  maiden,  after  which  another  fellow  cracked  a  bottle 
of  wine.  Meanwhile  old  Geldez  outside  plotted  dark 
deviltry. 

After  that  the  greaser's  girl  belonged  to  Mulgowan 
just  the  same  as  his  horse.  And  Mulgowan's  horse  loved 
him,  but  not  in  the  same  way  as  did  the  dark  eyes  of  the 
San  Anton'  valley. 

Women  are  different  creatures  the  night  before  a  regi- 


Back  to  San  Anton'.  137 

ment  pulls  out.  They  tell  you  things  that  you  never  heard 
from  their  lips  before.  They  talk  to  you  alone.  They  are 
pretty  in  their  gaiety,  bewitching  in  their  silence,  quite 
womanly  in  their  tears,  and  adorable.  The  last  night  at 
the  San  Anton'  barracks  was  memorable.  The  regiment 
was  ready  to  laugh  or  cry.  Promises  were  made.  Mul- 
gowan  danced  with  dark  eyes,  and  later  they  strolled  out 
into  the  moonlight  together.  And  old  Geldez  watched 
them  and  plotted  still. 

Historical  novels  have  been  written  upon  the  reasons 
why  regiments  were  ordered  out  a  short  time  ago.  There 
were  few  happier  men  than  Mulgowan  in  the  troop  at 
any  time,  but  while  we  were  pushing  on  to  the  front  he 
couldn't  sleep  for  furious  spirits.  The  "front"  is  any 
place  on  the  borderland  of  God's  country  and  some  other 
place  where  something  is  expected  to  drop  at  any  mo 
ment.  We  arrived.  Not  many  hours  afterward  Mul 
gowan  became  a  changed  man  and  a  spoiled  trooper. 

It  happened  in  the  morning  just  after  the  mail  was 
brought  in.  When  one  opens  a  package  in  a  cavalry 
camp  he  takes  chances  on  being  seen.  One  of  the  draw 
backs  of  the  service  is  that  the  state  of  blessed  solitude  is 
unattainable.  It  was  a  small  package  such  as  jewels  are 
sent  in.  It  was  unregistered.  A  human  finger,  dry  and 
cold,  was  in  the  box.  Mulgowan  did  not  swear,  which 
was  unnatural.  The  skin  upon  his  face  became  colorless. 
He  dropped  the  thing.  The  trooper  nearest  looked  at  it 
intently  and  then  at  his  own  hands. 

"Left  third  finger,"  he  remarked. 


138  Back  to  San  Anton' 

"Is  it  a  woman's  ?"  Mulgowan  asked  in  a  stifled  voice. 
His  face  was  turned  away. 

"Must  belong  to  a  woman  or  a  kid,"  was  the  answer. 
"Cheer  up,  Mul." 

That  evening  after  retreat  we  saw  Mulgowan  sitting 
alone  in  the  shadowy  twilight.  His  eyes  seemed  to  look 
backward  toward  San  Anton'.  He  did  not  even  smoke. 
We  hated  to  say  anything.  After  a  while  Mulgowan 
walked  along  the  picket  line  until  he  came  to  his  own 
horse.  Then  he  stopped  and  whispered  for  a  long  time 
close  to  the  fancy,  little  gelding's  ear,  an  action  on  his 
part  which  made  the  youngster  Yellow  Hair  very  happy, 
indeed. 

And  long  after  taps  had  sounded  I  rolled  over  on  my 
bunk  and  peered  out  from  under  the  raised  walls  of  the 
tent.  The  moon  was  high  and  there  were  no  shadows. 
Mulgowan  still  stood  on  the  picket  line.  His  fingers  of 
one  hand  were  tangled  in  the  mane  of  Yellow  Hair,  and 
his  eyes  were  turned  backward  toward  San  Anton'.  The 
stable  guard  walked  his  post  and  whistled  low. 

Three  days  afterward  another  package  was  handed  to 
Mulgowan,  and  when  it  was  opened  we  saw  another  third 
finger  belonging  to  a  woman  or  a  boy.  It  was  the  third 
finger  of  a  right  hand  this  time,  and  it  was  dry  and  cold. 
Mulgowan's  face  did  not  change,  because  it  had  been 
haggard  and  white  for  three  days. 

What  the  youngster  Yellow  Hair  was  told  that  night 
no  one  else  ever  knew.  He  looked  very  wise  and  thought 
ful  while  his  master  stood  by  his  head  just  before  taps 


Back  to  San  Anton'.  139 

sounded.  And  after  that,  when  all  troopers  slept,  Mul- 
gowan  stole  away.  Yellow  Hair  never  told  that  his  mas 
ter  had  gone  back  to  the  dark  eyes  of  the  San  Anton* 
valley. 

After  reveille  roll-call  the  next  morning  the  first  ser 
geant  approached  the  troop  commander,  saluted  and  said : 

"Sergeant  Mulgowan  missing,  sir." 

The  troop  commander  strolled  over  to  headquarters, 
saluted  several  times,  and  reported  to  the  officer  of  the 
day: 

"Sergeant  Mulgowan  missing,  sir." 

Among  other  things  which  telegraph  operators  pounded 
out  that  same  morning  was,  "Sergeant  Mulgowan  miss 
ing."  And  the  old  greaser,  Geldez,  away  back  in  San 
Anton'  heard  the  same  words  repeated,  and  his  face  be 
came  a  dirty  yellow  hue,  and  people  never  saw  him  in  the 
San  Anton'  valley  after  that  day. 

A  recruit  in  the  troop,  who  was  old.  enough  to  know 
better,  spoke  out  loud  and  at  length  about  time-of-war  de 
serters,  and  incidentally  remarked  that  such  did  not  de 
serve  a  military  funeral.  We,  who  stood  near,  listened 
until  the  youth  had  finished  his  observations,  then  we 
applied  our  muscular  selves  toward  making  him  regret 
his  words.  The  troop  was  broken  up,  for  it  loved  Mul 
gowan  and  was  proud  of  him.  Meanwhile  the  fancy,  little 
gelding  Yellow  Hair  whinnied  softly  and  often  and  pawed 
the  turf  with  his  front  hoofs. 

The  rest  of  the  story,  all  except  the  ending,  was  told 
me.  They  said  that  a  man  in  civilian  garb  rushed  into  a 


140  Back  to  San  Anton'. 

San  Anton'  bar-room  several  nights  after  the  Geldez  place 
had  been  closed.  It  was  very  late.  They  said  that  the 
man  was  mad  and  that  he  drank,  drank,  until  stupor  came. 
And  when  he  could  drink  no  more  the  man  was  heard  to 
mutter : 

"Cover  them  up,  my  little  Dark  Eyes— cover  them  up. 
For  God's  sake,  cover  them  up,  I  say !" 

They  all  knew  the  dark  eyes  of  the  San  Anton'  valley 
and  they  went  at  once  to  the  place  of  old  Geldez,  the 
greaser — many  of  them.  The  moon  whitened  the  sand 
about,  but  all  was  dark  inside — dark  and  silent.  It  was  a 
low  hut  with  four  windows.  The  three  in  front  were 
tightly  shuttered  and  ominous.  The  back  window  was 
open,  and  the  shutters  were  stretched  apart.  One  of  them 
hung  lightly  on  its  hinges,  and  the  night  wind  made  it 
sway  and  softly  creak. 

They  entered,  the  fascination  of  terror  was  upon  them. 
A  human  voice  would  have  made  them  turn  and  flee. 
Had  a  cat  purred  they  would  have  shrank  back  affrighted, 
as  if  from  an  uncanny  sound.  Had  it  rubbed  its  furry 
sides  against  them  in  the  darkness  they  would  have  stood 
fear-frozen,  as  if  in  the  clutch  of  the  devil.  Curious 
and  uncertain  things  are  those  fibres  we  call  nerves. 

Truly,  they  seemed  to  crawl  through  the  empty  bar 
room  with  its  two  tightly  shuttered  windows — through 
another  room,  where  the  third  window  was  accounted  for. 
Then  the  leading  man  stepped  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
last  room  and  looked. 

Have  you  ever  heard  the  scream  of  a  frightened  horse  ? 


Back  to  San  Anton'.  141 

You  will  always  remember  the  sound  if  you  have.  It  is 
horrible.  It  is  like  the  sound  which  the  leading  man  ut 
tered  when  he  looked  into  the  last  room  of  the  Geldez 
place  that  night. 

The  open  shutter  swayed  in  the  wind  and  softly  creaked. 
A  pallid  moonbar  came  through  the  orifice  and  moved 
backward  and  forward  across  the  coverlet  of  the  bed. 
Something  lay  behind  in  the  shadow — something  voice 
less,  yet  possessed  of  gleaming  eyes ;  and  even  as  the  first 
man  looked  two  awful  objects  were  stretched  out  toward 
him.  Then  the  shutter  creaked  again,  and  the  pale  moon 
beam  included  the  two  dark  things  in  its  light  and  the 
man  screamed.  Later,  when  they  had  gained  their  breath 
and  nerves  back  in  the  bar-room,  the  leader  said : 

"I  saw  them  move  out  from  the  shadow  where  the  eyes 
were,  and  they  looked  like  arms,  but  there  were  no  hands 
to  them — only  stumps — ugh."  The  m^n  shuddered  and 
gulped  down  many  more  drinks. 

When  daylight  came  the  mad  drinker  crept  unsteadily 
from  the  bar-room.  It  was  not  until  daylight  came  that 
the  other  men  ventured  back  to  the  old  Geldez  place. 
Still  afraid,  they  entered  again,  and  found  that  they  had 
fled  from  nothing  but  the  little  dark-eyed  maiden.  Her. 
arms  were  buried  beneath  a  coverlet  and  when  it  was 
raised,  they  saw  how  she  had  suffered.  The  dark  eyes 
were  closed  now,  and  the  arms  were  still.  The  men  won 
dered  why  old  Geldez  was  not  there. 

Yellow  Hair  was  very  happy  one  morning,  because 
Mulgowan  had  been  with  him  and  petted  him  again  and 


142  Back  to  San  Anton'. 

again.  It  was  a  different  looking  trooper  who  reported 
for  duty  to  the  first  sergeant  that  morning.  Twelve 
days  had  passed  since  Mulgowan  lingered  on  the  picket- 
line,  whispering  to  Yellow  Hair  and  looking  backward 
toward  San  Anton'.  In  the  orderly-room,  where  the  troop 
books  were  kept,  a  dirty  word  was  written  opposite  his 
name.  In  the  little  volume  containing  army  regulations, 
words  are  printed  to  this  effect : 

"Any  soldier  deserting  from  garrison  or  field  will  be 
accorded  such  punishment  as  the  court-martial  may  di 
rect.  In  time  of  war  this  punishment  shall  be  death." 

Mulgowan  had  come  back  to  the  troop  in  the  night. 
Just  after  reveille  he  had  reported  to  the  first  sergeant, 
and  the  troop  commander  had  placed  him  at  once  under 
arrest.  Mulgowan  spoke  no  word  to  his  old  fellows.  Oh, 
how  we  wished  we  could  help  him.  There  was  no  joking 
at  mess  that  morning. 

Anybody  can  tell  you  what  happened  after  reveille  and 
before  stables.  A  corporal  and  two  privates  of  the  main 
guard  were  sent  over  from  headquarters.  The  boys  who 
loved  Mulgowan  were  out  in  the  troop  street,  watching 
while  they  placed  him  under  arrest.  Had  they  been  any 
thing  but  good  soldiers,  and  had  they  been  anywhere  ex 
cept  in  Uncle  Sam's  army,  the  arrest  of  Mulgowan  would 
never  have  taken  place. 

"Escort  this  prisoner  to  the  guard-house,"  the  troop 
commander  ordered. 

Mulgowan  stood  at  attention  and  spoke  no  word. 

The  two  privates  of  the  main  guard  brought  their  car- 


Back  to  San  Anton'.  143 

bines  to  the  position  of  port  arms,  and  stood  five  paces  be 
hind  the  prisoner.  The  corporal  saluted  the  troop  com 
mander  and  said,  "Forward,  march."  The  corporal's 
voice  was  husky.  He  was  not  pleased  with  his  task. 

Mulgowan  seemed  not  to  hear  the  command.  It  was 
repeated. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  the  prisoner  said.  He  stepped  over 
to  the  picket  line,  where  Yellow  Hair  was  tethered.  The 
two  talked  together  for  a  moment.  The  guards  watched. 

Then  Mulgowan  was  led  away  to  court-martial. 

And  the  fancy  little  gelding,  Yellow  Hair,  whinnied 
often  in  the  days  that  followed  and  pawed  the  turf. 


The  Voice  in  the  Fourth  Cell. 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  FOURTH  CELL 


Back  from  the  coast  and  high  among  the  hills  is  the 
little  village  of  Manati — hid  away  among  the  hills  of  white 
rock  on  the  island  of  Porto  Rico.  When  the  great  guns 
stormed  and  roared  in  the  harbor  of  San  Juan,  fifty  miles 
away,  only  the  faintest  reverberations  were  borne  back 
to  this  tiny  village.  When  the  white  Sibley  tents  of 
Uncle  Sam's  soldiers  dotted  the  rolling  land  outside  the 
town,  naked  children  played  in  the  streets  and  men  and 
women  starved  just  the  same  in  the  prison. 

There  are  thick  mahogany  bars  on  the  fourth  cell  of 
the  Spanish  prison  at  Manati.  Look  through  them  to 
day  and  in  the  half-light  you  will  see  two  very  wonder 
ful  eyes.  There  are  no  such  eyes  back  in  the  States.  You 
may  find  orbs  like  them  among  the  fairest  of  Spain's  fair 
women,  but  few  will  there  be  so  depthless,  great  and 
dark. 

They  speak,  laugh — they  charm  you  so  that  you  can 
see  naught  but  them.  You  cannot  tell  whether  it  is  the 
expression  of  knavery  or  the  spirituelle  light  which 
charms  you  more.  You  pause  before  them.  If  any 
Spanish  comes  to  you  that  moment  you  will  speak.  Then 
gradually  in  the  dimness  you  will  perceive  the  rest  of 
Juan  Tosto's  face. 


148         The  Voice  in  the  Fourth  Cell. 

It  will  please  you.  No  countenance  could  be  vicious 
or  ugly  with  such  eyes.  You  will  not  wonder  at  the 
sunken  cheeks,  or  at  the  drawn,  bloodless  lips,  for  all 
Spanish  convicts  slowly  starve.  Pass  on,  you  must. 

Then  in  a  moment,  you  will  hear  strains  of  weird, 
hushed  melody.  It  is  like  the  dream  of  a  pure  con 
science,  so  sweet,  so  ethereal,  so  appealing;  close  your 
eyes  and  you  will  see  the  great  white  moon,  playing  upon 
the  turrets  of  Spanish  castles.  You  care  not  to  under 
stand  the  words — so  touching  is  the  music  from  the  cell 
of  Juan  Tosta. 

But  we  knew  the  Spanish  singer,  Silk  Redmond  and  I, 
before  he  was  starving  in  the  dark  cell  of  Manati  prison. 
When  his  home  was  on  the  great  White  Cliffs,  hanging 
over  the  curling,  limpid  Rio  Grande,  we  met  him.  There 
is  a  Rio  Grande  in  Porto  Rico.  It  is  distant  from  no 
where  on  the  island.  Its  water  is  the  clearest  in  the 
world — like  a  mountain  spring. 

Years  before  Juan  Tosta  was  a  slave. 

Because  he  was  a  Porto  Rican  those  whose  veins  run 
with  pure  Castilian  blood,  would  have  called  Juan  a  mon 
grel.  Strange  to  an  American  are  these  people — so  mild 
and  harmless  are  they.  The  finer  feelings  of  life  are  not 
unknown  to  them.  They  live  in  a  land  the  capabilities 
of  which  are  incalculable,  yet  they  die  in  their  youth — 
die  not  from  disease,  but  in  the  slow  agony  of  wasting 
limbs,  in  the  low  fever  of  hunger  unappeased. 

Centuries  of  oppression  have  made  them  a  timid  peo 
ple.  The  rich  Spanish  planter  was  their  master  once. 


The  Voice  in  the  Fourth  Cell.         149 

To-day  they  are  trying  to  realize  that  Americans  pay 
wages  for  labor. 

The  last  words  of  dying  Spain  were  a  declaration  of 
peace.  American  soldiers  are  quartered  in  old  Spanish 
garrisons,  and  American  gunboats  peer  majestically  into 
what  were  once  Spanish  cities.  Senoritas  are  singing 
"After  the  Ball"  in  all  Porto  Rican  towns.  All  things 
have  been  remembered. 

Yet  detachments  of  Uncle  Sam's  horsemen  are  scour 
ing  the  hills  for  dark  little  men  with  bare  feet  and  hag 
gard  faces — for  men  who  have  long  known  that  war  is  no 
more,  and  whose  wives  and  children  are  passively  starv 
ing  in  the  coast  cities. 

Do  they  hate  the  cavalrymen  who  are  daily  running 
them  down  ?  Yes,  just  as  slaves  of  other  days  hated  the 
lash.  Ah,  but  they  hate  the  rich  Spanish  planter  much 
more,  even  as  the  slaves  hated  him  who  held  the  lash. 

Why  was  it  that  skeleton  companies  of  Americans 
routed  whole  regiments  of  Spanish  soldiers?  Because 
these  dark  little  men  with  bare  feet  and  haggard  faces 
were  in  the  ranks.  And  why  were  they  there?  Because 
they  were  nothing  but  poor  Porto  Rican  mongrels,  and 
their  masters,  the  full-blooded  Castilians,  drove  them  to 
it. 

And  these  same  little  men  in  those  few  months  felt  a 
sensation  which  their  fathers  never  knew.  The  Ameri 
can  feels  it,  trembles  under  it,  glories  in  it. 

It  is  the  sensation  of  conquering  fear. 

They  saw  that  the  pale-faced  Castilian  was  not  king  of 


150         The  Voice  in  the  Fourth  Cell. 

the  world,  and  they  quivered  in  the  thrall  of  a  might) 
thought.  When  it  was  no  longer  a  thought  but  a  con 
summated  action,  these  dark  little  men  were  deserters,  in 
festing  the  great  white  cliffs.  And  the  Porto  Rican 
women  were  awed  by  deeds  of  such  daring,  and  at  night, 
behind  bolted  doors,  they  whispered  words  of  praise  for 
such  heroes. 

And  they  also  taught  their  naked  babies  to  say,  when 
Uncle  Sam's  soldiers  passed  by : 

"Mericano  mucho  wano!" 

And  so  well  did  the  tiny,  dark-skinned  youngsters  learn 
the  lesson  that  in  a  few  days  the  words  grew  to  be  a 
meaningless,  wearying  sound  to  the  boys  from  the  States. 

Meanwhile  the  deserters  made  midnight  sallies  upon 
the  plantations  where  they  once  slaved.  Yes,  and  they 
burned  the  haciendas.  The  very  dignified  name  of  "guer 
rillas"  became  theirs,  and  the  cavalrymen  from  the  States 
received  orders  to  bring  them  in  dead  or  alive. 

And  all  these  things  resulted  in  Silk  Redmond  and  I 
meeting  Juan  Tosta,  the  sweet  singer  on  the  Great  White 
Cliffs. 

"We  don't  want  to  cart  around  any  prisoners,"  the  ser 
geant  of  the  detachment  said.  "The  San  Juan  prison  is 
crowded  now.  We  want  to  sleep  nights,  instead  of  stand 
ing  guard.  All  I  got  to  say  is  don't  monkey  with  the 
greasers." 

The  sergeant  was  an  old  man.  He  had  soldiered  in 
Texas.  We  were  tickled  at  the  outlook. 

A  December  night,  yet  you  wanted  no  blankets.     Four 


The  Voice  in  the  Fourth  Cell.         151 

men  were  already  sleeping.  The  cook-fire  was  a  mass  of 
whitened  embers.  The  guard  hummed  softly  and  paced 
about  among  the  horses.  Silk  Redmond,  finishing  a 
cigar,  let  his  eyes  wander  high  among  the  beautiful  mys 
teries  of  a  tropical  night. 

When  we  had  slept  an  hour  the  sky  beyond  an  ad 
jacent  group  of  hills  reddened  into  a  vast  lurid  expanse. 
The  guard  saw  it,  and  in  a  few  moments  we  all  knew 
that  there  was  game  in  the  vicinity  and  that  it  was  very 
much  awake. 

At  dawn  we  pushed  our  horses  up  to  the  hot,  smoking 
ruins  of  a  big  hacienda.  The  Spanish  owner  said  that 
for  two  nights  he  had  heard  the  songs  of  Black  Stick  up 
in  the  cliffs — Black  Stick,  the  bold  and  bad  Porto  Rican, 
the  very  worst  guerrilla  on  the  island.  He  did  his  work 
well  that  night,  however. 

For  ten  days  we  searched  every  crag  and  abutment 
along  the  high  walls  of  the  Rio  Grande,  from  Manati  to 
Ciales.  The  songs  of  Black  Stick  were  heard  no  more, 
a  circumstance  which  made  us  understand  that  the  out 
law  used  his  eyes.  Then  even  the  small  detachment  was 
divided.  Silk  Redmond  and  I  stuck  together.  Black 
Stick  was  making  sleepless  nights  for  the  old  cavalry 
sergeant. 

And  we,  why  .we  would  have  given  up  future  hopes  for 
a  shot  at  him. 

Did  you  ever  track  a  buck  for  a  whole  day  and  then 
watch  him  leap  out  from  your  very  shadow  and  disappear, 


152         The  Voice  in  the  Fourth  Cell. 

while  you  forgot  that  there  were  such  things  in  creation 
as  carbines,  cartridges  and  venison  steaks  ? 

We  were  very  weary,  Silk  Redmond  and  I.  We  were 
blue,  too,  and  foolish  enough  to  let  our  minds  wander 
back  to  the  States  where  our  hearts  were.  We  were  too 
weary  to  make  a  fire  that  night.  Had  we  done  so,  we 
would  not  have  heard  the  soul-melting  melody  of  the 
Porto  Rican  bandit.  A  moment  or  two  later,  and  we 
would  not  have  heard  it,  except  as  angel  music  in  a 
dream,  for  our  eyes  were  weighted  down  with  sleep. 

We  did  not  move.  It  was  a  soothing  touch  upon  our 
foreheads,  like  the  pressure  of  a  mother's  hand.  It 
brushed  away  the  calloused  places  in  our  souls  and 
changed  us  for  one  memorable  moment  from  cavalrymen 
into  little  children.  It  would  have  made  us  feel,  had  we 
ever  doubted,  that  there  are  raptures  hidden  away  in 
heaven. 

The  moon  shone  high  upon  the  cliffs.  The  rocks  stood 
out  in  the  pallid  radiance.  The  Rio  Grande  twinkled 
back  at  the  stars  above  the  gorge  and  hummed  low  of 
peace  and  slumber.  Down  from  the  cliffs  there  came  to 
us  a  quaver  of  enchantment.  Then  the  magic  voice  was 
silent.  It  was : 

"Like  the  last  sweet  note 
From  a  wild  bird's  throat, 
As  off  to  the  south  he  goes." 

Black  Stick  was  untamed  still,  but  he  was  sad,  too, 
and  very  lonely.  By  his  song  we  knew  it. 


The  Voice  in  the  Fourth  Cell.         153 

For  several  moments  Silk  Redmond's  heart  was  so  big 
that  it  choked  his  throat,  and  he  could  not  speak.  This 
is  what  the  words  were,  when  they  came : 

"I'm  going  to  pull  my  freight  in  the  morning  and  let 
the  poor  devil  starve  and  sing  himself  to  death.  I 
wouldn't  shoot  that  chap  any  more  than  I  would — eat  a 
baby." 

The  Rio  Grande  purred  and  prattled  on.  It  was  very 
dark  in  the  gorge.  I  reached  for  Redmond's  hand.  His 
was  groping  for  mine.  Then  we  dreamed  of  great  cities 
and  loving  white  faces  in  the  Northland,  while  the  moon 
mounted  the  skies  above  the  gorge,  and  its  white  bars 
played  in  the  depths  of  the  running  river. 

In  the  morning,  the  rest  of  the  squad  ran  into  us. 

"Well,  what  do  you  know?"  the  old  sergeant  asked. 

"Black  Stick  may  be  in  Jericho  for  all  I  can  tell,"  Red 
mond  averred  hopelessly. 

"In  my  opinion,  Black  Stick  and  his  melancholy  music 
is  all  a  fake,"  some  one  said. 

I  acknowledged,  without  choking,  that  he  voiced  my 
sentiments  exactly. 

We  were  standing  upon  the  river  bank.  The  cliffs  rose 
high  above  us. 

"Well,  that  beats  the  devil,"  said  the  old  cavalry  ser 
geant.  "We  are  certainly  a  gang  of  coffee-coolers." 

A  great  rock  knocked  down  a  horse  in  our  midst.  It 
was  hurled  from  the  heights.  Then  came  another. 

"All  a  fake,"  Redmond  repeated  nervously.  Then  the 
sergeant  spoke  again : 


154         The  Voice  in  the  Fourth  Cell. 

"Ford  the  river  with  these  horses,  Darley.  Take  posi 
tions  over  there,  and  don't  move  your  eyes  from  the 
cliff.  Corporal  Mack,  take  two  men  and  circle  to  the  left. 
I'll  go  this  way  with  Redmond  and  the  kid.  No  non 
sense,  remember!" 

"We'll  have  to  get  to  him  first — if  he  lives,"  Redmond 
whispered  to  me.  And  we  raced  ahead,  climbing  higher, 
higher  upon  the  rocks. 

Even  had  I  never  heard  the  bewitching  cadence  of 
Black  Stick's  voice  on  a  moon-mellowed  evening,  no 
white  man  could  have  leveled  a  carbine  at  those  soft,  lus 
trous,  Spanish  eyes.  And  when  Silk  Redmond  and  I  saw 
them  gleaming  from  a  thicket,  we  stood  erect  and  gently 
beckoned  for  the  dreaded  outlaw  to  approach. 

His  knife  was  in  one  hand ;  his  hat  in  the  other,  and  his 
eyelids  were  stretched  wide  apart.  There  was  a  red  light 
in  his  great,  dark  eyes,  like  a  distant  forest  fire  shining 
through  a  wall  of  night.  It  was  the  light  of  horror.  His 
dark  skin  was  changed  into  the  ashy  gray  of  a  raincloud. 
Trembling  he  approached. 

Thus  was  the  taking  of  Black  Stick,  the  terrible,  on 
the  Great  White  Cliffs  overlooking  the  Rio  Grande. 

Ah,  but  he  was  a  sweet  singer ! 

The  old  cavalry  sergeant  was  very  happy  when  he  saw 
the  Porto  Rican  creeping  in  front  of  us  down  the  cliffs. 

"Why  didn't  you  wing  the  greaser?"  he  asked. 

"He  didn't  give  us  a  show,"  Redmond  answered. 

It  takes  a  good  man  to  be  a  soldier.  Redmond  and  I 
were  only  recruits.  Moreover,  we  had  little  hope  of  ever 


The  Voice  in  the  Fourth  Cell.         155 

being  much  better.  Had  we  been  good  soldiers  we 
would  have  captured  Black  Stick  on  the  same  night  we 
heard  his  songs.  Had  we  been  good  soldiers  we  would 
have  had  to  carry  the  bandit's  body  down  the  cliffs,  in 
stead  of  allowing  him  to  lead  the  way. 

Strong  was  the  guard  that  took  Juan  Tosta,  alias  Black 
Stick,  to  Manati  prison.  Strong  and  thick  are  the  ma 
hogany  bars  which  keep  him  in  the  dark,  fourth  cell. 
The  spirit  of  a  bandit  is  broken  within  him.  Hunger 
plays  sadly  upon  a  man's  nerve.  And  then  the  bandit 
spirit  is  not  mighty  in  the  Porto  Rican  at  best. 

But  his  voice  is  not  dead.  It  is  as  subtle  as  the  cen 
tury-old  wine  in  the  cellars  of  the  mighty  El  Alcaldo.  It 
is  as  sweet  as  the  memory  of  dear  ones  far  away.  And 
the  eyes  of  Juan  Tosta,  once  a  slave,  once  the  dreaded 
Black  Stick,  shine  with  the  light  of  a  living  soul  when  he 
sings. 

Juan  cannot  understand  why  we  two,  who  took  him 
from  the  Great  White  Cliffs,  sit  at  evening  at  the  ma 
hogany  bars  of  his  cell — sit  silent,  almost  breathless,  until 
he  sings  the  slumber  song  and  the  bugle  calls  us  back  to 
camp.  Juan  cannot  understand  why  a  warm,  gray  blan 
ket  with  a  big  U.  S.  in  the  centre,  was  given  him  to  sleep 
upon. 

Juan  cannot  understand  why  Silk  Redmond  thrust  a 
trembling  hand  through  the  mahogany  bars  last  night, 
when  the  slumber  song  was  ended — a  trembling  hand 
which  grasped  his  own  and  lingered  there. 

Juan  Tosta  will  never  know  why  the  two  American 


156         The  Voice  in  the  Fourth  Cell. 

cavalrymen  took  him  from  the  Great  White  Cliffs  above 
the  Rio  Grande.  He  thinks  we  were  good  soldiers  that 
day. 

And  so  does  the  old  cavalry  sergeant,  even  if  we  didn't 
"wing  the  greaser." 


The  Good  Which  Was  in  Him. 


THE  GOOD  WHICH  WAS  IN  HIM. 


No  trooper  said  that  Allen  was  not  qualified  to  be  troop- 
clerk.  He  had  formerly  been  a  college  student.  He  had 
influential  friends  in  Washington.  Taps  had  just  been 
played  over  Cooper,  the  old  clerk.  And  because  the  cap 
tain  picked  out  Allen  to  take  his  place,  the  boys  were 
angry.  The  clerkship  is  desirable  in  a  cavalry  regiment, 
because  it  relieves  a  man  from  all  calls  and  troop  duty. 
Allen  might  have  been  a  college  professor  or  the  son  of 
the  President,  but  among  Uncle  Sam's  horsemen  he  was 
only  a  recruit.  And  it  was  galling  to  see  a  recruit  slip 
out  from  his  share  of  hard  work.  The  boys  got  over  it, 
however,  for  the  new  clerk  proved  to  be  a  good  fellow. 

As  a  cavalryman,  Allen  was  athletic  and  satisfactory. 
Some  way,  back  in  the  States,  he  had  never  taken  pains 
to  show  people  the  good  which  was  in  him.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  was  little  heard  from  until  the  time  when 
Uncle  Sam  called  for  men  to  make  soldiers  out  of.  ... 
There  is  a  bunch  of  troopers  down  in  Porto  Rico  to-day 
who  know  that  Allen  once  did  a  noble  thing. 

Ten  days  after  he  joined  the  troop  another  recruit  came 
down  from  Washington.  He  was  a  slender  little  chap, 


162        The  Good  Which  Was  in  Him. 

with  big,  pathetic  eyes.  Soon  he  became  known  as  Kid, 
except  in  roll-calls,  when  he  answered  to  "Allen,  Num 
ber  Two."  The  little  fellow  had  nothing  to  say,  but  we 
could  all  see  that  he  wasn't  cut  out  for  a  trooper.  We 
knew,  too,  that  he  was  making  a  game  fight  against  that 
overpowering  sickness  which  feeds  upon  the  thoughts  of 
home.  The  time  came  when  both  of  the  Aliens  were  away 
back  in  the  mountains  of  Porto  Rico,  and,  like  every 
other  soldier  on  the  island,  they  dreamed  much  of  their 
native  land.  But  the  Kid  brooded,  which  was  bad  for 
him. 

Retreat  was  just  over  for  the  cavalry  detachment  in 
Ciales.  The  troopers  hung  up  their  carbines  and  six- 
shooters,  removed  their  hot  blouses,  and  many  strolled 
over  to  lounge  in  the  plaza  of  the  tiny  town.  Allen,  the 
troop-clerk,  walked  slowly  and  thoughtfully  down  to  the 
stables.  His  bay  gelding,  Rio  Grande,  whinnied  softly 
at  his  approach.  The  big  cavalryman  stroked  the  animal 
and  was  silent.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  was  lonesome 
and  heart-hungry  that  he  sought  the  gloomy  stables.  A 
little  way  off  the  big  river,  after  which  the  troop-horse 
was  named,  plunged  and  boomed  over  the  rocks. 

The  valleys  were  growing  dim  with  twilight,  but  high 
up  on  the  Ciales  hill,  where  the  stables  were,  it  was  not 
dark  yet.  Allen  wondered  why  there  had  been  no  mail 
steamer  from  the  States  in  San  Juan  harbor  for  ten  days. 
His  shapely  gelding  seemed  to  be  thinking  about  some 
thing,  too.  Perhaps  the  troop-horse  was  wondering  why 
there  was  so  much  rain  up  on  the  Porto  Rican  hills,  or 


The  Good  Which  Was  in  Him,        163 

why  the  big  soldier  who  petted  him  was  so  serious  that 
evening.  Anyway,  he  playfully  pushed  off  Allen's  dusty 
campaign  hat  with  his  silky  nose,  and  afterward  used 
the  same  silky  nose  to  find  out  what  was  in  the  pockets 
of  the  big  cavalryman's  blue  shirt. 

Dark  shadows  crept  higher  and  higher  up  the  hills,  and 
the  tropical  stars  grew  steady  and  whitened.  Allen  won 
dered  if  there  would  be  a  certain  letter  for  him  when  the 
steamer  did  come  in — a  letter  from  an  American  girl 
whom  he  had  always  thought  much  about,  and  whose 
memory  had  become  a  great  and  dear  thing  to  him  since 
he  had  been  a  cavalryman.  Somehow,  his  thoughts  did 
not  make  him  happy,  but  he  whistled  very  cheerily  to 
help  him  forget.  Rio  Grande  was  playful. 

Just  then  the  troop-clerk  saw  the  other  Allen  sitting 
alone  in  the  gloom  at  the  far  end  of  the  stables.  The  lad 
was  staring  away  over  the  hills  toward  the  Northland. 
The  big  fellow  approached  and  peered  into  the  other's 
face.  He  saw  a  strange  expression  there — the  same  sort 
of  an  expression  which  he  had  seen  upon  the  face  of 
another  recruit  the  day  before  a  squad  of  men  were  sent 
out  to  search  for  him. 

'"'Are  you  sick,  Kid?"  the  troop-clerk  questioned  ten 
derly.  He  knew  well  why  the  silent  lad  was  staring  away 
beyond  the  shadowy  mountains.  He  knew  the  nature  of 
the  sickness  which  was  upon  him — how  intense  and  un 
reasoning  were  his  longings,  how  dark  and  deep  was  his 
suffering.  The  troop-clerk  knew  because  he  had  felt  and 
suffered,  too,  years  ago  in  the  first  college  days.  And  the 


1 64       The  Good  Which  Was  in  Him. 

troop-clerk  pitied  the  other  Allen,  with  every  bit  of  his 
big,  warm  heart.  Only  two  women  knew  the  warmth  of 
that  heart  then,  and  one  was  the  mother. 

"Come  on  up  to  the  quarters,"  he  said,  "where  it's  light 
and  the  other  fellows  are.  'T won't  do  you  any  good  to 
be  moping  around  here  in  the  dark.  I've  got  a  good  book 
up  in  the  orderly  room.  Come  on  up  and  get  it — come  on, 
Kid." 

He  caught  the  lad  by  the  shoulder  and  persisted  gently. 
Rio  Grande  whinnied  softly  as  the  two  passed.  Their 
arms  were  locked,  and  the  big  cavalryman  was  talking 
in  a  low  voice.  The  river  boomed  in  the  distance,  and 
the  stable  guard  walked  his  post. 

******** 

It  was  four  days  after  that  when  the  mail  came  in 
from  the  States.  A  big  bundle  of  business  matter  from 
the  army  headquarters  at  San  Juan  and  some  Washington 
dispatches  were  handed  to  Allen,  but  there  was  no  letter 
from  the  American  girl.  With  an  angry  burning  in  his 
throat  and  a  heavy  burden  in  his  breast,  the  troop-clerk 
sorted  the  pile  of  routine  stuff.  He  glanced  through  one 
of  the  Washington  communications. 

A  moment  afterward  he  was  covered  with  a  hot  per 
spiration. 

Allen  folded  the  dispatch,  placed  a  horseshoe  upon  it, 
and  then  stepped  out  in  front  of  the  quarters  to  cool  off. 
He  heard  the  rain  pounding  upon  the  cliff  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  up  the  trail.  The  shower  was  coming  closer,  closer. 


The  Good  Which  Was  in  Him.        165 

Darkness  closed  in  with  the  storm.  The  other  Allen  sat 
silent  and  sad-eyed  in  the  gloom. 

"Maybe — she — thinks  —  I'm  —  not — worth — writing — 
to,"  the  troop-clerk  muttered  unsteadily.  The  eyes  of  the 
lad  were  strangely  wide  open. 

"Because  I'm  only  a  common  enlisted  man,  and  because 
her  father  is  a  Congressman." 

This  moment  the  troop-clerk  looked  again  at  the  face 
of  the  other  Allen.  The  big  cavalryman  seemed  to  forget 
his  own  troubles.  The  other  was  only  a  boy.  A  mother 
away  back  in  the  Northland  was  yearning  for  this  boy. 
And  his  face  which  the  troop-clerk  saw  in  the  gathering 
of  the  storm  and  night — well,  it  told  of  a  heart  which  was 
slowly  breaking. 

Two  lips  closed  very  tightly  that  moment.  They  were 
the  lips  of  the  man  who  had  been  a  college  student  once, 
and  whom  many  people  back  in  the  States  thought  would 
never  amount  to  much.  He  was  the  same  big  cavalry 
man  who  had  longed  for  a  letter  from  an  American  girl, 
and  had  received  none. 

Looking  all  the  while  at  the  lad,  Allen  stood  very  erect, 
as  soldiers  are  taught  to  do.  Then  he  swallowed  some 
thing  big  and  lumpy  in  his  throat,  after  which  he  began 
to  whistle  loudly.  A  gust  of  rain  swept  through  the  open 
door  of  the  quarters,  and  the  sad-eyed  soldier  moved  from 
his  seat  and  silently  sank  down  upon  his  bunk. 

A  half-hour  later  the  troop-clerk  said  to  the  top- 
sergeant  : 

"An  order  came  in  to-night  for  the  Kid's  discharge. 


166       The  Good  Which  Was  in  Him. 

His  descriptive  list  was  not  among  the  papers,  but  the 
dates  and  place  of  enlistment  are  all  right." 

Allen  spoke  very  quietly.  He  had  been  working  over 
the  papers  for  many  minutes.  The  first  sergeant  looked 
up  from  a  ten-day-old  paper  and  remarked : 

"I'm  glad  of  it.  Can't  make  a  soldier  out  of  a  homesick 
young  lady.  .  .  .  The  mud  will  be  knee-deep  down 
at  the  stables  in  the  morning  by  grooming  time  if  this 
infernal  rain  keeps  up — and  this  is  the  dry  season." 

The  rain  clouds  rushed  and  clamored  above  the  tiny 
town.  The  trumpeter  of  the  troop  put  his  head  out  into 
the  storm,  and  his  bugle  screamed  the  last  call  a  soldier 
hears  at  night — the  weird,  wailing  taps. 

The  next  forenoon  "Allen,  Number  Two,"  with  a  big 
canvas  roll  in  his  arms,  started  in  an  oxcart  for  Manati, 
where  he  would  connect  by  train  with  San  Juan.  He 
was  the  happiest  boy  on  the  whole  island  of  Porto  Rico, 
because  he  was  going  back  to  God's  country  and  his 
mother,  and  there  was  an  honorable  discharge  in  his 
pocket.  Just  before  he  had  left  the  quarters  Allen,  the 
troop-clerk,  had  given  him  a  sealed  envelope,  and  said  the 
following  in  a  dry  whisper : 

"Read  this,  old  man,  when  you  can't  see  San  Juan  any 
longer  from  the  deck  of  the  transport — not  a  minute 
sooner.  Understand?  And  write  to  me  all — all  about 
Washington,  as  soon  as  you  can.  .  .  .  Well,  adios, 
Kid.  Good  luck  to  you." 

The  same  afternoon  another  bunch  of  mail  was  brought 
to  the  troop.  There  had  been  so  much  on  the  delayed 


The  Good  Which  Was  in  Him.        167 

transport  that  the  clerks  in  San  Juan  could  not  sort  it 
all  for  the  first  day.  One  of  the  private  letters  which 
Allen  received  contained  the  following  paragraph : 

"Oh,  Jack,  it's  come!  I  vowed  I  wouldn't  write  you 
again  until  papa  told  me  your  discharge  was  on  the  way. 
Telegraph  when  you  reach  New  York,  and  we'll  all  meet 
you  at  the  train.  And,  say,  Jack,  put  on  lots  of  warm 
things  on  the  transport,  because  lots  of  poor  boys  have 
died  of  pneumonia  from  the  sudden  change  of  climate. 
I  can  hardly  realize  that  you  are  coming  back." 

Down  at  the  lonely  stables  that  night  the  shapely  geld 
ing,  Rio  Grande,  looked  very  wise  and  thoughtful.  A 
certain  big  cavalryman  stood  at  his  head  and  said  many 
things  in  a  choking  whisper.  The  west  was  streaked 
with  dark  red  glory,  but  it  was  black  and  ominous  beyond 
the  mountains  in  the  northwest.  The  swollen  river  boomed 
angrily  down  the  trail.  And  the  sentry  walked  his  post 
and  occasionally  kicked  up  straggling  bunches  of  hay 
closer  to  the  picket  line. 

"So  it  was  the  little  woman  who  got  the  discharge,  and  I 
thought  she — was — ashamed — to— write — to — me.  .  .  . 
Oh,  well,  the  Kid  is  happy,  anyway,  and  his  mother  will 
soon  be  happy,  too.  ...  I  hope  the  little  woman 
won't  be  angry  because  I  did  it.  The  Kid  would  probably 
be  eating  his  heart  out  in  the  troop  to-night  if  I  had 
received  her  letter  the  same  time  as  the  discharge.  .  .  . 
But  I  guess  I  can  stick  it  out  all  right.  I  can  stand  it 
all  right,  if  she'll  write  to  me." 

The  big  cavalryman  walked  back  to  the  quarters,  whis- 


168        The  Good  Which  Was  in  Him. 

tling  very  loudly  and  trying  to  forget.  And  that  night  the 
trooper  who  had  once  been  a  college  student  wrote  a  long 
letter  to  the  American  maiden  whose  father  was  a  Con 
gressman.  Long  after  taps  had  sounded  and  all  other 
soldiers  save  the  sentries  were  asleep,  there  was  still  a 
light  in  the  orderly  room,  and  Allen  was  still  writing. 

The  city  of  San  Juan  looked  vague  and  far-away  be 
hind  the  harbor  mists.  The  white  walls  of  Castle  Morro 
were  indefinite  in  clouds  of  gray.  And  when  Allen, 
Number  Two,  could  see  the  Porto  Rican  capital  no  longer, 
he  tore  open  the  sealed  letter  which  the  troop-clerk  had 
given  him.  Some  of  it  is  here : 

"I  suppose  you  wondered  how  it  all  came  about.  We 
knew  how  you  felt,  Kid.  We  could  see  that  the  life  was 
killing  you,  and,  to  be  honest,  I  was  afraid  you  might  do 
something  to  disgrace  that  town  which  we  both  love. 
And  then  I  would  have  had  to  put  a  dirty  word  across 
your  name  in  the  troop-books.  You  couldn't  have  been 
happy  at  home  if  you  went  that  way. 

"You  see,  I  had  some  friends  in  Washington,  who  got 
a  discharge  for  me,  but  /  mislaid  the  descriptive  list,  made 
'17'  out  of  the  '7'  in  the  dates,  and  the  discharge  was 
yours.  Of  course,  I  couldn't  have  done  it  if  I  hadn't  been 
troop-clerk. 

"There  were  reasons  why  I  didn't  care  particularly 
about  going  home,  but  I  knew  what  you  suffered  every 
day  in  the  troop.  Don't  feel  sorry  over  this,  because  I'm 
tough  and  can  stand  'soldiering'  a  little  longer.  Good- 
by,  Kid,  and  good  luck." 


The  Good  Which  Was  in  Him.        169 

The  great,  silent  hills  back  of  old  Morro  seemed  only 
a  deeper  azure  than  the  clouds  now,  but  the  eyes  of  "Allen, 
Number  Two,"  who  was  no  longer  a  soldier,  were  too 
filmy  to  take  in  their  beauty.  The  transport  steamed  on, 
on  toward  the  Northland. 

Every  evening  for  almost  a  month  the  fancy  bay  geld 
ing,  Rio  Grande,  listened  to  a  big  cavalryman's  confidings 
and  was  petted.  And  no  trooper  knew  the  secrets  which 
Rio  Grande  was  told.  The  troop-clerk  attended  to  his 
duties  as  a  good  cavalryman  should.  The  great,  white 
cliffs  were  beaten  with  tropical  showers,  and  the  troopers 
dreamed  more  and  more  of  the  Northland.  And  down 
the  trail  from  the  stables  the  big  river  boomed  and  tum 
bled  over  the  rocks. 

Allen  was  very  busy  when  this  letter  came : 

"So  you  thought  I  was  ashamed  to  write  to  you?  Ah, 
Jack,  you  should  have  known  me  better  than  that.  What 
you  did  was  hard  for  me,  but  it  was  harder  for  you.  I 
told  everybody  you  were  coming  home.  The  mother  of 
the  'other  Allen'  thinks  you  are  some  sort  of  a  soldier- 
angel,  Jack.  .  .  .  But  I'll  write  to  you — even  if  you 
have  to  stay  on  that  horrid,  rainy  island  for  three  years." 

Allen  was  very  busy  when  the  above  epistle  came.  He 
was  making  out  the  final  statements  for  all  the  war  re 
cruits  in  the  troop,  for  the  official  order  for  their  dis 
charges  had  just  been  cabled  to  the  island  from  Washing 
ton.  His  own  discharge  was  already  made  out,  because 
the  name  Allen  stands  among  the  first  on  the  troop  muster 
roll. 


170       The  Good  Which  Was  in  Him. 

And  down  in  the  stables  Rio  Grande  and  the  other  troop- 
horses  pricked  up  their  ears  and  whinnied  softly  when 
they  heard  the  happy  shouts  of  the  discharged  cavalry 
men  up  in  the  quarters.  And  the  big  river  boomed  might 
ily  and  plunged  over  the  rocks  down  the  trail. 


"Suppose,"  he  gasped.  "I  should  grab  that  salver  and  dance  around  the 
quarters  with  it." 


The  Aberration  of  Private  Brown. 


THE 

ABERRATION  OF  PRIVATE  BROWN. 


Brown  had  a  faculty  of  listening  while  others  talked. 
He  was  a  big  cavalryman,  and,  putting  it  with  studied 
mildness,  he  was  not  pleased  with  his  job.  Patriotism 
was  noble  once — about  the  time  when  the  desks  of  liter 
ary  editors  were  deluged  with  spasms  on  the  Maine  blow 
up — and  Brown  had  become  a  trooper  ere  his  unhealthy 
delirium  had  pined  away. 

Many  troopers  were  weeded  out  by  the  flies  and  fever 
of  a  Tampa  summer  camp,  but  Brown  had  been  one  of 
the  tanned  and  haggard  cavalrymen,  too  leathery  to  get 
a  sick  furlough,  and  who  were  among  the  first  American 
soldiers  to  view  the  tropical  shore  and  the  mist-hung 
hills  of  Porto  Rico  from  the  dirty  deck  of  a  transport. 

And  Brown  was  very  unhappy  in  that  land  of  few 
birds  and  fewer  flowers.  The  troop  headquarters  was  in 
Ciales,  away  up  among  the  Great  White  Cliffs.  And  this 
night  a  bunch  of  cavalrymen  sat  in  the  plaza  of  the  tiny 
town,  and  talked  lingeringly  about  God's  country  over  in 
the  northwest.  The  hill  breezes  were  fresh  with  a  shower- 
odor,  and  pungent  with  the  perfume  of  great  orange 
groves,  borne  up  from  the  valleys.  Stars  were  mellowing 


176      The  Aberration  of  Private  Brown. 

the  tropical  twilight  above  the  cliffs.  Brown  was  foolish 
enough  to  let  his  thoughts  wander  back  to  his  native  land. 
Very  hurriedly,  very  carelessly,  he  had  kissed  a  tall,  dark- 
eyed  maiden  on  the  spring  night  in  the  Northland,  just 
before  he  chased  off  to  join  his  regiment.  The  memory 
of  that  northern  maiden  had  become  a  massive  thing  in 
his  brain  during  the  last  few  months.  Below  him  the  Rio 
Grande  tumbled  noisily  across  the  Manati  trail.  Some 
thing  which  an  old  cavalry  sergeant  was  saying  caught 
Brown's  ear  this  moment. 

"...  Pretty  foxy  recruit,  he  was,  but  dead  sore 
on  the  service.  First  thing  we  knew  he  was  laid  up  with 
a  bad  leg.  The  doctor  was  no  chump,  but  he  couldn't 
do  a  thing  for  the  rook — leg  was  stiff  and  swollen.  Doc- 
got  gray  hairs  over  the  case — let  the  kid  pound  his  bunk 
for  a  few  weeks,  then  give  him  a  discharge  for  disability. 
As  soon  as  the  kid  got  home  he  wrote  back  to  his  bunkie 
something  like  this : 

"  'Thread  a  horsehair  on  a  fine  needle  and  run  it  under 
your  kneecap.  It  won't  bleed  nor  hurt  much.  Shave 
off  the  ends  of  the  hair  close  and  go  on  sick  report.  The 
doctor  will  do  the  rest.  You  can  pull  the  hair  out  when 
you're  a  man  again — but  maybe  you  want  to  serve  out 
your  three  years.  Say,  my  leg  was  in  fine  shape  the  day 
after  I  limped  out  of  headquarters  with  a  pained  look  on 
my  face  and  a  discharge  in  my  clothes.  Love  to  all  the 
boys.' " 

Brown's  face  reflected  the  glow  from  the  red  embers 
of  his  pipe  that  night  as  he  lay  upon  his  bunk.  And  I, 


The  Aberration  of  Private  Brown.      177 

who  was  his  bunkie,  saw  that  face  in  the  reflection  and 
wondered  at  the  strange  expression  upon  it.  The  wild- 
ness  of  an  idea  in  his  brain  caused  it.  And  long  after 
taps  had  gone  the  red  glow  and  the  strange  expression 
was  still  upon  his  face;  and  from  a  formless  throng  of 
thoughts  in  his  brain  there  slowly  developed  a  plan,  de 
fined,  delicate  and  difficult. 

To  no  man  in  the  troop  did  Brown  speak  a  word  for 
seven  days.  When  one  cavalryman  made  a  remark  to 
this  effect  at  the  end  of  the  time,  every  one  thought  of  it. 
I  alone  knew  how  poor  a  soldier  and  how  royal  a  fellow 
was  Brown.  Moreover,  I  was  the  only  one  who  knew 
about  the  maid  back  in  the  States. 

At  reveille  roll-call  one  morning  Brown  was  in  ranks 
but  did  not  say  "Here"  when  his  name  was  called  by  the 
top  sergeant.  There  was  a  vacuum  depicted  upon  his 
face  which  showed  rare  art  in  its  cultivation. 

"Brown,  when  you  come  to,"  observed  the  top,  "report 
to  the  orderly  room." 

I  never  saw  a  man  who  could  stare  so  picturesquely  at 
nothing  and  reflect  it  on  his  face  like  my  bunkie  could. 
There  were  no  active  comments  made  in  regard  to 
Brown's  mental  condition  until  the  morning  when  he  re 
fused  to  get  up  for  reveille.  The  first  call  had  gone  some 
moments.  The  troopers  were  hurriedly  dressing.  There 
was  no  movement  in  Brown's  bunk.  The  sergeant  of  his 
squad  saw  a  pair  of  dull,  expressionless  eyes,  which 
drearily  followed  the  movements  of  the  flies  on  the  wall. 
The  face  of  the  man  in  the  bunk  was  empty  and  smile- 


178      The  Aberration  of  Private  Brown. 

less.  I  was  sitting  near  by,  looking  pained,  and  my  poor 
friend  was  saying: 

"My  brother's  wife  will  be  here  day  after  next.  Got  a 
telephone  this  morning.  She  doesn't  know  I  was  all  cut 
up  in  the  war  (there,  that  telephone  is  ringing  again). 
She  said,  'Brown,  you're  looking  bad.'  .  .  .  Tell  that 
gentleman  at  the  door  that  my  life  was  despaired  of  last 
night,  but  that  I  am  now  out  of  danger." 

After  the  sergeant  had  gone  to  make  the  troop-com 
mander  acquainted  with  the  affair,  Brown  whispered  to 
me: 

"Say,  if  you  think  this  is  easy,  just  try  it  for  awhile !" 

That  night  the  patient  felt  the  necessity  of  becoming 
more  active  in  the  capacity  of  a  wild  man.  The  burden 
of  his  song — and  he  hasn't  a  fortune  in  his  voice — was, 
"O,  beer  in  the  little  black  bottle,  black  bottle."  It  de 
veloped  in  those  hours  of  night  that  I  was  the  only  person 
who  had  the  slightest  control  over  Brown.  It  was  a 
touching  proof  of  his  friendship  for  me  because  I  was  re 
leased  from  all  calls  and  troop  duty  and  turned  into  a  sort 
of  keeper  for  my  poor  friend. 

But  the  strain  was  telling  sadly  upon  him.  For  some 
unaccountable  reason  the  troop  commander  had  not  yet 
reported  the  matter  to  the  physician,  and  Brown  had  only 
been  allowed  the  luxury  of  a  lucid  interval  twice  in  four 
days.  When  I  was  alone  with  him,  he  said : 

"Here  I  am  as  nutty  and  as  noisy  as  a  whole  fever  ward 
— have  to  study  all  night  to  get  my  ravings  down  pat,  and 
the  d doctor  won't  come  around  to  pronounce  on 


The  Aberration  of  Private  Brown.      179 

'em.  If  I'd  a'known  this  thing  had  to  be  kept  up  indefi 
nitely,  I'd  a'  deserted  first.  Say,  it's  no  cinch  to  keep  the 
bees  buzzin'  in  your  bonnet." 

He  was  looking  at  me  pathetically.  There  was  no 
humor  about  Brown. 

"I  have  to  keep  saying  to  myself,"  he  went  on,  dismally. 
"Brown,  you're  hivey,  you're  buzzy,  you're  supposed  to 
hear  noises  and  look  idiotic — and,  by  heaven,  the  idea 
grows  on  me !  Say,  bunk,  don't  you  think  it  would  bring 
the  doctor  around  if  I  got — er — violent  ?" 

I  felt  that  his  suggestion  was  a  good  one,  but  in  the 
capacity  of  a  keeper,  I  recommended  that  it  be  a  mild 
sort  of  violence. 

"Oh,  I'll  not  bruise  you  up,  except  when  the  others  are 
looking,"  he  said  seriously. 

And  he  got  violent.  It  was  that  unreasoning,  oh-if-I- 
could-only-die-give-me-a-knife  sort  of  violence.  He 
would  look  at  me  as  if  to  say,  "Don't  you  dare  give  me  a 
knife."  Still  the  doctor  did  not  appear.  After  two  hours 
of  splendid  effort,  Brown  was  hoarse  and  fagged  out. 

"Suppose,"  he  gasped,  "I  should  grab  that  saber  and 
dance  around  the  quarters  with  it?"  He  was  drenched 
with  perspiration. 

"You'd  get  shot — promptly,"  I  observed.  "Here 
comes  somebody !  Get  nutty,  Brown,  it's  the  doctor !" 

I  couldn't  describe  that  interview.  Brown  spread  him 
self.  He  was  a  poetic  dreamer — a  maudlin  maniac — per 
fect.  The  doctor  departed  with  no  thought  but  pity  in 
his  mind — supreme  evidence  that  there  was  no  humor  in 


i8o      The  Aberration  of  Private  Brown. 

Brown.  A  couple  of  hours  afterward  the  top  sergeant 
called  me  into  the  orderly  room  and  said  many  surpris 
ing  things. 

"Well,  what  do  you  know?"  asked  Brown  in  a  low 
voice.  He  was  sitting  up  in  his  bunk,  smoking  cheer 
fully.  The  ordeal  of  the  doctor  was  over.  His  pros 
pects  were  only  cheerful  ones  now.  As  the  whole  troop 
was  out  on  target  practice,  Brown  was  having  a  lucid  in 
terval.  The  enjoyment  of  it  shone  upon  his  face.  I 
hated  to  spoil  it,  but  I  might  not  have  so  good  a  chance 
again. 

"The  doctor  says  you've  got  'em,  all  right." 

"Did  he  say  there  were  any  special  or  interesting  feat 
ures  to  my — my  derangement  ?"  he  questioned  facetiously. 

"And  they're  going  to  send  you  back  to  the  States,"  I 
resumed. 

"I  guess  I'm  pretty  bad  actoring.  I  guess  I  won't  do." 
Brown  was  tickled.  Oh,  what  a  shame  it  was  to  have  to 
tell  him !  The  troubled  look  on  my  face  made  him  say : 

"Devilish  sorry,  bunkie,  you  can't  go  along.  Honest, 
you'll  never  know  how  much  I  think  of  you  for  the  way 
you  helped  me  out.  We  were  always  solid,  though,  be 
fore — before  I  was  taken.  Why,  confound  it  all,  the  only 
thing  I  regret  is  leaving  you  in  this — dam'  country !" 

It  was  positively  pitiful. 

"Don't  worry  about  that,  old  man,"  I  said,  "I'm  going 
with  you." 

Brown   jumped   at   my   hand   and   declared   with   a 


The  Aberration  of  Private  Brown.      181 

throaty  quaver,  "By  Jove !  if  you'll  desert,  I'm  with  you, 
body  and  soul!" 

"Don't  boil  over  so  loud,  Brown,"  I  said  quietly. 
"You've  got  your  own  little  game  to  play — besides,  when 
I  quit  this  man's  service,  I'm  not  going  to  have  a  French 
leave  to  look  back  on." 

Brown  was  looking  more  mystified  every  minute. 

"Moreover,"  I  went  on,  slowly,  "you  don't  think  they're 
going  to  let  a  wild  man  run  around  loose  on  a  transport, 
do  you  ?  Why,  it  would  be  a  criminal  imposition.  You're 
liable  to  hurt  somebody.  You'll  be  under  a  strong  guard 
all  the  way  home.  Corp.  Kennedy  and  I  are  appointed 
your  keepers." 

As  I  have  said  some  half  dozen  times  before,  there  was 
no  humor  in  Brown.  The  excruciating  refinement  of  my 
pleasantries  were  lost  on  him.  In  fact,  Brown  was  dazed 
and  limp.  His  pipe  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"I  never  thought  of  that !"  he  gasped. 

"The  captain  has  written  to  your  parents  concerning 
your  deplorable  absence  of  mind,  but  we  can " 

"Wha-at?"  roared  Brown.  He  sat  up  erect,  wild-eyed. 
And  I  had  been  warned  to  spare  him  from  all  excite 
ment. 

"But  you  can  write  them  that  your  mind  is  only  tem 
porarily  webby,  and — and  I'll  sign  the  statement." 

Brown  looked  at  me  with  pitying  scorn. 

"Yes,  and  the  folks  will  say  the  saddest  thing  about 
it  all  is,  the  poor  boy  believes  he  is  perfectly  sane.  And 


182      The  Aberration  of  Private  Brown. 

I  see  a  pathetic  finish  for  Brown  when  the  maid  hears 
about  it — oh !" 

"Get  leary,  old  man,"  I  whispered,  excitedly,  at  this 
moment,  "the  boys  are  coming  back." 

Brown's  derangement  assumed  a  suicidal  mania  at 
once.  Corp.  Kennedy  was  exhausted  in  the  course  of  an 
hour  through  his  efforts  to  keep  the  patient  from  doing 
himself  bodily  harm. 

Now,  the  corporal  was  a  conscientious  man.  It  was 
this  trait,  chiefly,  which  caused  the  troop  commander  to 
put  him  in  charge  of  Brown,  the  much  deplored.  It 
would  be  a  long  story,  indeed,  to  relate  how  the  Porto 
Rican  children  pointed  to  my  poor  friend,  and  then 
touched  their  own  foreheads,  whispering  to  each  other : 

"Loco — Americano  soldato,  loco." 

It  would  be  a  long,  sad  story  to  tell  how  poor  Brown 
was  confined  in  the  rear  smoking-room  of  the  transport, 
and  how  Corp.  Kennedy  insisted  that  either  he  or  I  must 
be  awake  with  the  patient  all  the  time.  It  was  a  burden 
of  peculiar  and  crushing  weight  for  Brown  to  bear,  when 
the  sick  and  discharged  soldiers  going  back  to  the  States 
would  peer  through  the  loopholes  of  the  smoking-room 
and  make  remarks  such  as  these : 

"Why,  he  washes  his  face  all  right,"  or  "It's  a  wonder 
they  don't  keep  him  in  a  straitjacket,"  or  "He's  a  savage- 
looking  lunatic,"  and  others. 

The  conscientious  manner,  too,  in  which  Corp.  Ken 
nedy  did  his  duty,  had  an  oppressive  and  unpacifiying  ef 
fect  upon  Brown,  whose  violent  intervals  occurred  only 


The  Aberration  of  Private  Brown.      183 

when  the  corporal  was  on  guard.  Violence  seemed  to 
weary  Brown  on  the  transport,  and  he  did  not  persist  in 
it,  except  when  it  was  absolutely  indispensable.  At  such 
times  the  loopholes  of  the  smoking-room  would  be 
crowded  with  interested  faces. 

While  the  big  transport  was  being  shoved  and  locked  in 
pier  22,  New  York  harbor,  Kennedy  was  the  busiest  man 
on  the  ship.  A  good  soldier  was  Kennedy,  and  before 
meeting  his  superiors  at  the  army  building  he  shaved  and 
donned  his  finest.  I  was  told  to  keep  Brown  under  heavy 
guard  until  he  returned.  The  corporal  said  he  would 
send  a  telegram  to  the  patient's  mother. 

Passing  over  the  manner  in  which  the  patient's  dis 
charge  was  obtained,  only  one  more  scene  is  necessary. 
Brown  braced  himself  for  a  last  delirium.  The  corporal 
must  have  no  suspicion,  at  least  while  he  was  in  the  States. 

"Allow  me  to  wholly  manage  the  matter,"  Kennedy 
whispered  to  me,  as  the  train  rolled  into  Brown's  native 
burg.  Our  patient  appeared  placid.  By  the  expression 
upon  his  countenance  one  would  imagine  that  he  held 
both  of  his  keepers  in  serene  disdain. 

And  a  moment  afterward  Brown  was  in  the  arms  of  a 
weeping  mother.  He  talked  irrelevantly;  he  smiled  a 
debilitated  smile — he  was  the  Brown  of  illusions — because 
Corp.  Kennedy  was  there.  It  was  the  bravest  effort  of 
his  life. 

And  a  tall  maiden  with  eyes  dark  and  handsome,  yet, 
oh,  so  sad — was  also  there !  Brown  appeared  not  to  see 
her. 


184      The  Aberration  of  Private  Brown. 

"It  is  with  much  sorrow,  madam,"  Kennedy  began. 
His  words  were  studied.  I  could  hear  no  more.  Some 
how  the  face  of  that  mother  and  the  eyes  of  that  tall  maid 
en — made  me  feel  giddy. 

"Excuse  me,  miss,"  I  began,  "but  I  am  Brown's  bunkie, 
and  he  was  my  best  friend  down  there  in  Porto  Ric " 

I  had  planned  to  explain  many  things  before  the  secret, 
but  the  maiden's  eyes  told  me  that  her  heart  was  breaking. 
She  knew  and  felt  the  truth  an  instant  later  and  her  dark 
eyes  were  sad  no  more. 

"The  corporal  knows  nothing,"  I  concluded.  "I  will 
get  him  away,  then  you  tell  the  mother.  Say  to  Brown 
that  I  will  see  him  to-night  at  9.  It  was  you,  miss,  that 
sickened  the  boy  of  the  service.  The  corporal  will  not  be 
with  me  to-night." 

And  the  time  came  when  I  had  to  hasten  away  from 
Brown's  mother  and  Brown's  sweetheart  and  Brown,  be 
cause  if  I  had  not  they  would  have  seen  something  in  my 
eyes — something  that  would  not  have  looked  well  in  the 
eyes  of  a  big  trooper. 

And  on  the  transport  Corp.  Kennedy  pleased  himself 
with  the  thought  of  a  difficult  duty  well  done,  and  I — 
well,  I  smoked  and  dreamed  and  missed  my  old  bunkie  as 
we  neared  the  tropical  shores  and  the  mist-hung  hills. 


The  Last  Cell  to  the  Right, 


\ 


THE  LAST  CELL  TO  THE  RIGHT. 


Nobody  knew  the  real  reason  why  Stanley  was  so  hag 
gard  and  white,  when  he  came  out  from  the  Spanish 
prison  at  Bayamon.  He  had  served  five  days  for  missing 
retreat.  He  certainly  was  not  starved,  because  they  fed 
him  as  usual  from  troop  rations.  Yet  Stanley  was  a  dif 
ferent  cavalryman  when  he  returned  for  duty. 

Now,  the  best  of  troopers  have  done  time  in  the  guard 
house.  Some  captains  use  the  old  Spanish  prisons  of 
Porto  Rico  for  guard-houses  these  days.  There  is  one 
in  Manati,  a  high  interior  town,  sixty  miles  from  San 
Juan.  I  had  ten  days  against  me  when  I  was  put  in  there. 
Why?  Well,  that  story  has  already  been  told.  At  any 
rate,  I  only  served  seven.  The  other  three  days  and  many 
more  were  in  the  hospital.  It  was  what  I  saw  which 
shriveled  up  my  nerve. 

When  the  realization  came  to  me  that  it  was  a  physical 
impossibility  to  dream  away  the  whole  ten  days,  I  looked 
about.  The  aspect  was  not  an  inspiration.  I  sat  in  a 
small,  stone-paved  plaza,  surrounded  by  cells,  dark,  dirty 
and  depressing.  There  was  a  well  in  the  centre  of  the 
prison  yard,  and  when  one  walked  across  the  flagging, 


190          The  Last  Cell  to  the  Right. 

his  footsteps  sounded  with  a  cavernous  reverberation  in 
the  black  water  chamber  below.  The  entrance  to  the  plaza 
was  a  big  iron  gate  which  was  open  in  the  daytime  and 
guarded  by  a  Spanish  policeman.  At  sunset  the  prisoners 
were  locked  in  the  cells,  and  the  plaza  was  left  untenanted 
save  by  stray  ponies  and  pallid  moon  bars.  It  was  in 
one  of  those  cells  that  Juan  Tosta,  the  sweet  singer  of 
the  Great  White  Cliffs,  sang  mournful  melodies  and  sick 
ened — Juan  Tosta,  once  the  dreadeJ  brigand  Black  Stick. 
Every  one  of  those  cells  has  been  the  abode  of  living 
death.  Men  and  women  and  babies  have  suffered  there 
in  ways  hardly  conceivable  to  white  people.  Tad  was  born 
in  that  last  cell  to  the  right,  where  the  stocks  are.  Tad 
studied  me  from  head  to  foot  when  I  first  became  his 
fellow-convict. 

He  had  the  eyes  of  the  wizened  woman  who  crouched 
at  the  door  of  the  last  cell.  Three  years  before,  without 
a  cry  or  sound,  Tad  had  filled  his  lungs  for  the  first  time 
— filled  them  with  the  foul  air  of  a  prison.  An  old  con 
vict  woman  told  me  this.  His  arms  were  like  any  other 
baby  boy's,  but  if  there  was  ever  a  voice  in  his  throat 
it  had  not  yet  been  used.  His  head  held  some  kind  of  a 
brain.  You  could  see  that  by  his  eyes,  but  Tad  never 
learned  to  smile. 

A  garment  hung  about  the  brown  baby,  and  about  the 
garment  hung  the  same  odor  which  reached  my  nostrils, 
when  I  ventured  too  close  to  the  woman  who  sat  at  the 
entrance  of  the  last  cell — sat  almost  hidden  behind  her 
gaunt  knees.  Her  lips,  her  breastless  figure  never  moved, 


The  Last  Cell  to  the  Right.  191 

but  everywhere  her  eyes  followed  the  baby.  They  were 
filled  with  seeming-  consciousness  of  that  crime  which 
gave  him  life  in  a  prison  cell.  They  were  bright  with  the 
staring  brightness  of  fever.  Had  they  shone  from  a  skull 
wrapped  in  brown  paper  they  would  not  have  made  you 
shudder  more.  The  father  of  the  infant  was  never  seen, 
but  day  and  night  his  moans  were  heard  in  the  plaza. 

There  are  men  and  women  in  Porto  Rican  prisons  who 
have  committed  no  crime.  When  families  can  furnish  no 
home  for  themselves  the  province  gives  them  a  cell.  At 
1 1  o'clock  each  day  the  province  also  gives  them  a  cupful 
of  clay-colored  soup,  the  primary  mystery  of  which  no 
soldier  has  yet  solved.  The  province  does  not  care  if  its 
paupers  obtain  other  articles  of  food.  They  are  welcome 
to  anything  which  they  can  beg  on  the  outside.  But  when 
the  life  spark  has  become  gray  and  chilled,  as  in  the  case 
of  Tad's  mother  and  father — so  depleted  that  they  crawl 
with  groans  and  great  difficulty — then  they  have  nothing 
but  clay-colored  soup  to  make  their  dying  longer.  In 
deed,  some  paupers  have  been  dying  for  years  upon  it. 
This  is  a  matter  of  no  consequence  to  the  province. 
American  paupers  and  soldiers  have  an  enlightened  habit 
of  eating  three  times  a  day.  They  are  unlike  the  Porto 
Rican  in  this  respect. 

One's  bones  need  little  food.  When  all  one's  muscles 
are  attenuated  and  dried  into  stiff,  brown  cords  from  eat 
ing  clay-colored  soup,  then  one's  stomach  ceases  its  pain 
ful  gnawings  at  a  vacuum.  Tad's  mother  was  like  this. 
His  father  was  not  yet  in  that  condition.  You  could  tell 


192  The  Last  Cell  to  the  Right. 

that  by  his  moans.  I  observed  all  these  things  during  the 
first  day.  It  tended  to  create  within  me  an  aversion  for 
government  straits. 

A  woman  walked  slowly  through  the  iron  gate  at  the 
prison  entrance.  She  was  smileless,  hungry-eyed  and 
silent.  A  large  tin  can  was  balanced  upon  her  head. 
Her  fleshless  figure  was  marked  with  none  of  the  curves 
of  a  woman.  Her  feet  were  bare;  her  movements  slow 
and  painful.  Tad  approached  her.  From  a  pocket  in  her 
dress  the  woman  produced  a  green  orange — natives  eat 
oranges  while  they  are  green  in  Porto  Rico.  Still  silent 
and  smileless  she  handed  it  to  Tad. 

Over  by  the  entrance  to  the  last  cell,  the  mother 
crouched  and  stared.  There  was  madness  in  her  eyes, 
but  she  did  not  move.  The  man  moaned  inside.  At  the 
well  the  other  woman  slowly  and  painfully  filled  the  can. 
The  descending  chain  made  a  weird,  cavernous  rumble, 
as  it  beat  against  the  slimy  stone  wall  of  the  black  water 
vault.  Kneeling  upon  the  flaggings,  she  placed  the  can 
upon  her  head  and  was  gone.  Tad  poked  his  hand  through 
the  rind  of  the  orange  and  crept  toward  his  mother.  Her 
eyes  stared  at  him  with  an  intensity  I  shall  never  forget. 
I  see  those  eyes  to  this  day.  They  seemed  to  bring  the 
child  to  her.  Suddenly  her  black  skeleton  hands  shot  for 
ward  toward  the  orange,  but  Tad  eluded  her.  Still  she 
crouched  motionless,  but  her  mad  eyes  followed  every 
movement  of  the  child. 

"Cannot  these  people  speak  ?"  I  almost  cried.  My  terror 
was  unaccountable.  You  will  see  life  rank  and  naked  in 


The  Last  Cell  to  the  Right.  193 

a  Porto  Rican  prison.  It  is  bared  of  all  tinsel  wrapping. 
You  will  see  how  the  slow  suffering  of  hunger  unappeased 
depraves  the  human  mind — how  one  wolfish  thought 
creeps  into  it  and  stays.  You  will  shudder  in  horror  at 
the  sight. 

At  sunset  the  Spanish  policeman  locked  my  cell  and 
the  others — all  save  the  last  one  to  the  right.  The  woman 
was  still  huddled  at  the  entrance,  while  the  twilight  was 
deepening — and  the  man  moaned  inside.  I  saw  no  more 
of  Tad  that  night. 

Did  you  ever  hear  a  cat  step  on  dry,  brittle  leaves? 
It  is  just  such  a  sound  as  this  which  numerous  cock 
roaches  make  when  they  crawl  across  a  stone  floor.  It 
will  keep  you  awake.  If  you  are  alone  it  will  make  you 
sit  erect,  and  things  will  become  distorted  in  your  mind. 
Your  eyelids  will  stretch  wide  apart.  The  darkness  will 
seem  shadowy.  There  is  always  darkness  where  cock 
roaches  are.  The  shrill,  snarling  "peak,  peak,"  of  raven 
ous  rats  can  be  borne,  but  the  clicking  rattle  of  cock 
roach  hordes  is  maddening.  Behind  shut  lids  you  will 
see  black  spiders  dangling  before  your  face.  A  strong 
pipe  will  sooth  you  some. 

I  was  glad  when  the  ashy  moonbeams  darkened  in  the 
plaza  and  the  dawn  settled  down.  The  trooper  who 
brought  breakfast  over  from  the  quarters  said  my  face 
was  white.  I  could  well  believe  it.  As  I  lifted  a  can  of 
coffee  my  hand  trembled.  The  sight  of  Tad  sickened 
me.  I  placed  the  tin  plate  of  bacon  and  potatoes  upon 
the  flagging  and  kicked  it  toward  him.  No  sound  reached 


194  The  Last  Cell  to  the  Right. 

me  in  the  cell,  where  I  disappeared  for  a  moment.  But 
when  I  returned  the  plate  was  empty.  Tad  held  a  potato 
in  his  two  brown  hands,  and  it  struck  me  that  he  looked 
significantly  across  the  plaza  at  two  convict  women.  His 
mother's  mad  eyes  were  riveted  upon  him.  The  man 
suffered  inside. 

Then  the  fleshless  form  of  the  water-woman  swung 
slowly  in  through  the  iron  gate.  She  filled  the  big  jar 
and  was  gone — silent  and  smileless  as  a  spectre.  My 
nerves  were  twitching — my  head  ached.  It  seemed  as  if 
I  were  becoming  dumb  and  inhuman — like  these  natives. 
Night  must  come  again.  The  thought  haunted  me  with 
shuddering  dread.  I  dared  not  tell  any  soldier  what  I 
suffered  lest  he  should  laugh,  having  neither  seen  nor  felt 
what  I  had.  The  sameness  of  it  all,  the  silent  suffering 
of  the  woman,  the  moanings  of  the  man  from  the  dark 
ness,  the  filth,  the  vermin — all  tortured  me.  And  every 
hour  of  the  growing  day  was  a  ruthless  warning. 

In  the  cavalry  service  men  from  the  ranks  have  to  bury 
the  dead  horses  and  mules.  I  performed  a  ceremony  once 
in  a  hot  country  over  the  remains  of  a  government  mule, 
four  days  gone  from  the  glanders.  I  did  not  volunteer 
for  this  duty.  It  was  thrust  upon  me.  I  remembered  that 
task  the  second  morning  in  Manati  prison,  when  I  admin 
istered  unto  my  little  fellow-convict  a  scrubbing  down 
with  government  bouquet. 

This  was  necessary.  Not  so  much  for  the  furtherance 
of  Tad's  comfort  as  for  my  own.  He  was  hourly  de 
creasing  the  interval  between  us.  He  seemed  to  like  the 


The  Last  Cell  to  the  Right.  195 

American  soldier.  He  was  mightily  attached  to  the  white 
potatoes  of  the  American  soldier.  In  order  that  I  might 
be  comfortably  chummy  with  the  brown  baby  the  duty 
devolved  upon  me  to  give  him  a  thorough  grooming. 

First  I  cut  down  an  army  undershirt  into  a  sort  of  ulster 
for  my  diminutive  friend.  He  watched  me  soberly.  He 
still  held  part  of  the  potato  in  his  brown  hands.  His 
face  was  smeared  with  it,  the  result  of  a  peculiar  process 
of  absorption.  I  then  rolled  up  my  sleeves,  put  a  heavy 
charge  into  my  pipe,  and  recklessly  cut  off  Tad's  garment, 
which  was  so  crowded  with  associations. 

Tad  tolerated  the  idea.  The  soldier  who  gave  him  big, 
white  potatoes  was  entitled  to  some  consideration.  I  had 
often  wondered  why  his  slate-colored  hair  grew  in 
patches.  I  ascertained  the  reason.  It  must  be  imagined. 
With  a  box  of  matches  I  succeeded  in  changing  his  for 
mer  garment  into  ashes.  Tad  was  finishing  the  potato, 
while  I  sweated  for  several  reasons,  the  heat  included. 
With  the  most  trying  part  of  the  task  over  I  turned  to  the 
soap  and  the  brown  baby. 

Such  a  shock  I  received  that  moment  can  never  be  ade 
quately  expressed.  From  motives  of  charity  and  others 
I  had  undertaken  to  scrub  the  child  down.  Well,  all  I 
can  say  is  that  I  did  it  very  hurriedly  and  with  averted 
face.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  beckoned  to  one  of  the  con 
vict  women  and  made  her  finish  the  job.  I  gave  direc 
tions  at  a  modest  distance.  Tad  was  allowed  to  dry  in 
the  sun.  SHE  was  as  shiny  and  rosy  after  the  operation 
as  only  Porto  Rican  babies  are.  The  mother,  crouching 


196          The  Last  Cell  to  the  Right. 

at  the  entrance  of  the  last  cell  to  the  right,  viewed  passing 
events  with  eyes  that  silently  raved.  And  the  water- 
woman  strode  silently  in  and  was  gone  with  her  burden. 

The  little  girl  baby  was  my  comrade  after  that.  She 
forgave  the  liberties  I  had  so  unintentionally  taken.  She 
allowed  me  to  trim  her  finger  nails.  Baby  hands,  even  if 
they  are  brown,  are  cute  things  and  well  worth  studying. 
All  my  efforts  failed  to  bring  forth  from  her  a  word,  a 
smile  or  a  cry. 

Dinner  was  brought  over,  and  we  sat  down  upon  the 
curbing  of  the  well,  Tad  and  I.  The  baby  thrust  her 
fingers  into  the  mess  tin  and  drew  forth  a  potato.  I  drank 
coffee — my  stomach  revolted  at  more.  Suddenly  some 
thing  crushed  its  way  into  my  nostrils.  Violently  sick 
ened,  I  looked  about.  The  mother  of  the  baby  was  upon 
me.  She  had  crawled  from  the  cell  door  to  my  feet. 
I  placed  the  mess  tin  upon  the  flagging  and  fled  to  the  far 
end  of  the  plaza.  Tad  sat  on  the  well  curb,  busy  with 
the  potato.  The  man  in  the  cell  moaned  louder,  and 
drops  of  water  from  the  brimming  bucket  fell  into  the 
black  tomb  with  a  cadence  deep  and  dreadful. 

The  bright  day  waned.  The  gloom  in  the  cells  deep 
ened.  The  gaunt,  smileless  water-woman  came  no  more. 
Over  in  the  troop  quarters  the  first  call  for  retreat  sound 
ed.  The  Spanish  policeman  stood  at  the  door  of  my  cell. 
He  smiled  and  beckoned.  God  only  knows  what  I  would 
have  given  to  answer  retreat  instead.  I  tried  to  smile, 
but  the  impulse  was  strong-  within  me  to  strike  him.  The 


The  Last  Cell  to  the  Right.  197 

woman  at  the  last  cell  moved  her  horrid  eyes  toward  me 
as  I  entered. 

And  so  five  days  passed — five  days  in  which  I  became 
aged  and  unmanned — five  days  in  which  I  atoned  for  all 
my  sins,  past  and  to  be.  And  all  the  while  Tad  became 
more  and  more  like  a  child  which  is  fed,  and  tbe  white 
army  shirt  which  she  wore  for  a  gown  grew  darker,  like 
the  one  which  was  ashes.  And  all  the  while  the  fleshless 
water-woman  swung  in  through  the  iron  gate  and  car 
ried  her  burden  away.  And  the  man  was  never  silent, 
and  the  mad-eyed  mother  changed  not. 

The  sixth  evening  I  clung  to  the  trooper  who  brought 
supper  to  me.  I  spoke  no  words — only  clung  to  him. 
Fiercer  than  ever  the  temptation  besought  me  to  strike 
the  jailer  down  as  he  smiled  and  beckoned  after  the  call 
for  retreat  had  sounded.  I  tried  to  sing,  but  my  voice 
was  hoarse  and  broken.  I  could  not  smoke,  for  I  had 
not  eaten.  The  darkness  was  moving  with  shadows. 

I  cannot  tell  the  time  it  all  happened.  It  is  horrid  for 
me  to  think  of  it  now.  There  was  the  scream  of  a  child. 
I  never  heard  the  voice  before,  but  it  was  from  Tad's 
throat !  An  instant  later  the  black  tomb  below  the  flagging 
was  filled  with  cries — but  they  did  not  last.  I  sprang  to 
the  bars  of  my  cell  ere  the  sounds  had  ceased  to  vibrate 
in  the  dark  chamber. 

And  in  the  white  moonbeams  of  the  plaza  I  saw  the 
mother  of  the  baby  girl  crawling  slowly  from  the  well 
curb  toward  the  entrance  of  the  last  cell  to  the  right. 

And  that  moment  as  I  looked  something  snapped  in  my 


198          The  Last  Cell  to  the  Right. 

brain.  During  the  many  days  which  followed  in  the  hos 
pital  I  saw  the  gaunt,  smileless  woman  filling  her  can  at 
the  well.  And  often  the  black  tomb  below  her  would 
vibrate  with  wailing  echoes. 

There  is  a  small  room  in  the  troop  headquarters  now  at 
Manati  which  the  captain  ordered  to  be  set  apart  for 
military  prisoners. 


The  Fever's  Fifth  Man. 


THE  FEVER'S  FIFTH  MAN. 


Fogarty  was  the  heaviest  and  most  depraved  man  in  the 
troop.  Moreover,  he  had  the  reddest  face  I  ever  saw  with 
one  exception — a  man  connected  with  political  adjust 
ments  back  in  my  native  burg.  Maybe  I  wrong  Fogarty. 
It  depends  upon  the  point  of  view  from  which  one  scans 
depravity.  Briefly,  his  faults  were  these : 

He  terrorized  recruits.  Following  each  pay-day,  he 
flirted  with  serpentine  combinations  until  broke.  He  was 
utterly  devoid  of  reverence  or  moral  conception.  He 
cursed  incessantly,  executing  weird  flourishes  and  intro 
ducing  innovations  of  the  most  nerve-shriveling  nature. 
Scientists  would  have  called  him  a  study  of  degeneracy. 
Cavalrymen  deemed  him  only  superficially  depraved  be 
cause  he  threw  away  money  and  loved  his  horse.  Mint 
Julep  was  the  horse's  name. 

Now,  I  was  a  recruit  and  in  Fogarty's  squad.  No  man 
or  boy  is  a  rational  being  during  his  first  month 
in  the  cavalry  service.  Veterans  say  their  marked  suc 
cess  in  life  is  due  to  it — or  their  failure.  A  recruit  has 
much  to  learn,  but  first  of  all  he  must  overcome  the 
if-mama-could-only-see-me-now  expression  his  face  is 


204  The  Fever's  Fifth  Man. 

prone  to  assume.  He  learns  that  it  is  unprofitable  to 
expatiate  upon  the  rich  appointments  of  his  residence  far 
away,  and  upon  the  princely  salary  he  threw  up.  He 
learns  to  grin  while  his  trousers  are  sticking  to  his  legs, 
because  they  are  chafed  and  bloody  from  bareback  riding 
in  the  bull-ring.  He  learns  that  the  U.  S.  commissariat 
does  not  supply  pie",  silken  hose  or  scented  pillows.  He 
learns  the  peculiar  devilishness  of  Southern  army  camps  in 
sultry  weather.  He  learns  to  eat  flies  and  other  strange 
things — and  to  eat  them  in  vicious  sunshine.  He  learns 
what  a  terror  the  rainy  season  is  for  one  who  can't  get 
out  of  it  for  several  reasons.  He  learns  to  chew  holes 
in  his  tongue  when  a  superior  officer  calls  him  a  dis 
grace  to  his  country  and  other  expressive  things.  He 
learns  how  insignificant  it  is  possible  for  a  human  atom 
to  be.  He  learns  to  laugh  at  the  whole  business  and  write 
home  how  strong  and  happy  he  is. 

Some  recruits  never  get  rational.  They  take  things 
seriously.  They  mutter  "God  help  me,"  and  bad  things 
about  wars  and  armies. 

I  enlisted  about  the  time  poems  on  the  Maine  became 
unpopular.  Fogarty  applied  a  system  of  ghoulish  torture 
to  make  me  miserable.  I  concluded  that  he  was  a  cun 
ningly-constructed  object  for  my  hatred,  and  that  his  heart 
was  packed  in  ice.  What  I  concluded  about  army  life  in 
general  I  kept  to  myself,  thereby  scoring  a  hit. 

One  evening  I  won  a  foot-race  and  found  myself  a 
friend  of  Fogarty's.  Old  soldiers  are  fond  of  physical 
demonstrations.  He  was  in  my  set  of  fours  in  troop  drill 


The  Fever's  Fifth  Man.  205 

the  next  morning.  Naturally,  my  horse  had  it  in  for  me, 
because  I  was  only  a  tilty,  trembly  recruit,  and  the  bridle 
did  not  fit.  Several  officers  had  already  directed  stereo 
typed  call-downs  at  me.  The  troop  halted  for  a  moment 
while  horsemen  formed  on  our  right.  We  stood  at  at 
tention — very  properly — all  except  Fogarty.  To  my  be 
wilderment  he  slipped  down  from  his  mount,  deftly  and 
quickly  tightened  my  bridle  on  both  sides  of  the  curb, 
and  stepped  over  his  horse  again,  whispering: 

"Give  me  a  chew  tobacco,  Kid." 

He  had  risked  reprimand  to  do  me  a  good  turn,  and 
the  ice  packing  which  I  pictured  about  his  heart  oozed 
out  of  my  mind  forever. 

We  were  on  the  skirmish  line  together,  crawling  up  the 
drenched  hill  in  front  of  Santiag',  Fogarty  and  I.  We 
beard  the  droning  death-whistle  which  is  thrown  from 
Mauser  barrels,  and  saw  the  punctures  which  the  whis 
tling  things  made  in  roots  and  sand  and  in  soldiers.  We 
turned  our  faces  up  when  it  rained,  and  gaped  like  lizards 
do.  We  tried  to  cough  out  sand  which  caked  in  our 
throats.  We  propped  up  our  heads  with  empty  can 
teens  when  neck  muscles  collapsed.  We  burned  our  hands 
on  the  barrels  of  our  own  carbines.  Cartridge-belts  burned 
our  waists.  We  did  not  mind  any  of  these  things. 

We  knew  nothing — felt  nothing  but  the  heat.  It  was 
the  sunshine  that  we  cursed  at  huskily — the  terrible  sun 
of  Cuba.  It  put  a  throbbing  weight  in  our  heads.  It 
made  us  laugh.  It  bound  our  limbs.  It  mixed  the  stifling 
smoke  of  powder  with  the  steaming,  choking  stench  of  the 


206  The  Fever's  Fifth  Man. 

ground.  That  stench,  which  the  sun  made,  is  fever.  It 
filled  our  stomachs,  our  lungs  and  our  brains. 

When  the  command  "Rest"  was  heard  along  the  firing 
line,  I  used  Fogarty's  mess  plate  to  pile  up  the  sand  in 
front  of  me.  Mine  was  thrown  away.  And  when  it  was 
night  I  smoked  half  of  Fogarty's  last  pipeful,  and  after 
that  I  rolled  over  on  to  half  of  Fogarty's  blanket.  Mine 
was  thrown  away. 

"Thank  God,  we  didn't  get  punctured  this  day,"  I  mut 
tered.  It  was  night,  and  silent  about.  The  Red  Cross 
men  were  busy. 

"I'm  too  tired  to  give  a  dam,  Kid,"  said  Fogarty. 

A  couple  of  days  later  I  awoke  in  the  morning  feeling 
stiff  and  tired.  We  were  encamped  about  the  city.  At 
noon  my  face  burned  and  I  did  not  answer  mess  call. 
I  wanted  to  sleep.  At  4  o'clock  Fogarty  felt  my  cheeks. 

"I'll  tell  the  top-sergeant  to  let  you  pound  the  bunk 
awhile  longer,"  he  said. 

The  next  day  I  was  in  the  hospital,  feeling  hot  and 
thirsty  and  hungry,  all  at  once.  The  air  in  the  hospital 
tent  was  full  of  groans  and  the  odor  of  drugs.  It  was 
also  stifling.  The  boys  about  me  had  felt  the  weight  of 
a  locomotive  concentrated  into  a  Mauser  rifle  ball.  To 
me  Fogarty  said : 

"Kid,  you've  got  the  fever." 

After  that  I  didn't  see  him  for  six  weeks,  because  I 
was  sent  back  to  the  States  on  a  hospital  transport.  I 
had  reached  the  furlough  stage,  which  means  that  delirium 
was  over,  and  that  my  fever  had  flickered  out,  leaving 


The  Fever's  Fiftli  Man.  207 

only  half  of  me  and  a  disreputable  appetite — when  Fo 
garty  came.  I  had  no  clothes  to  go  on  furlough  with — 
nothing  but  a  tattered  shirt  and  a  debilitated  pair  of  cav 
alry  trousers ;  and  the  worst  of  it  was  I  could  not  get  any. 

It  is  not  hard  for  me  to  recall  the  events  of  that  night 
when  Fogarty  came.  I  was  watching  the  Red  Cross  men 
unload  a  hospital  train.  A  procession  of  stretchers  was 
passing  from  the  cars  to  the  fever-tents.  Some  of  the  sick 
men  had  been  forced  to  walk.  Had  I  not  seen  others 
staggering  through  the  twilight,  I  would  have  said  that 
Fogarty  was  drunk  again.  He  dragged  a  huge  blanket 
roll. 

"Kid,  where's  the  rest  of  you?"  he  questioned  weakly. 

I  really  embraced  him  that  night — Fogarty,  the  pro 
fane,  the  red-faced.  And  when  he  told  me  that  he  had 
brought  along  a  bundle  of  my  clothes  from  camp,  I  could 
not  speak,  for  my  voice-cords  were  numb.  I  only  whim 
pered.  Fever  leaves  one  childish-weak,  you  know. 

Fogarty  had  lugged  along  my  things  with  his  own — 
and  he  a  sick  man.  He  had  remembered  me  after  six 
weeks — remembered  me,  who  was  only  a  recruit.  I  tell 
you,  gentlemen,  there  are  men  in  Uncle  Sam's  cavalry. 

That  night  Fogarty  stretched  his  great  body  out  on  a 
mattress — a  real  one — for  the  first  time  in  two  months. 
His  feet  protruded  through  the  iron  rods  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  bedstead. 

"Are  those  women  going  to  be  here  ?"  He  pointed  to  a 
couple  of  nurses.  I  nodded. 

"Why,  it's  a  cinch  to  have  the  fevers  here,  ain't  it,  Kid  ?" 


208  The  Fever's  Fifth   Mail. 

His  tongue  was  dry  like  it  was  on  the  Cuban  hills  that 
day.  A  beam  of  the  low,  white  moon  looked  in  through 
the  flap  of  the  tent  and  rested  on  Fogarty's  hands.  It 
made  them  seem  pallid,  but  his  face  was  very  hot  and  red. 

An  ugly  fever  is  typhoid.  It  chars  one's  brain  and 
body  with  slow  flame.  It  stretches  the  eyelids  wide  apart. 
In  the  middle  of  the  day  it  glows  to  a  white  heat.  It  turns 
one  into  a  helpless  animal,  that  feels  only  an  incurable 
thirst  and  a  craving  stomach — an  animal  that  moans  for 
ice  water  when  the  nurse  is  busy  wrapping  up  a  dead  man 
in  the  next  cot — a  staring-eyed  animal  that  knows  there 
are  such  things  as  home  and  friends  and  death,  but  cares 
not.  Listlessly  he  watches  a  companion  fall  into  that 
chilled  sleep. 

Typhoid  plays  with  four  men  and  gets  earnest  with  the 
fifth — fatally  earnest.  The  moon  was  high  when  I  left 
Fogarty  that  night. 

A  couple  of  weeks  later  he  looked  at  me  hard  one  morn 
ing.  It  was  going  badly  with  him. 

"Why  in  the  devil  don't  you  go  home?"  he  asked  ten- 
.lerly.  It  wasn't  like  the  old  Fogarty's  voice. 

"Haven't  got  a  furlough  yet,"  I  said,  lying.  The  papers 
vvere  eight  days  old  already.  "Haven't  got  a  hat,  either," 
I  continued.  I  had  been  wearing  Fogarty's.  Mine  was 
lost. 

"Take  care  of  this  'dough'  for  me,  will  you,  Kid?  I 
didn't  have  time  to  blow  a  dam  red.  It  gets  my  nerve 
with  this  thirst." 


The  Fever's  Fifth  Man.  209 

He  gave  me  his  last  month's  pay.  Fogarty  was  getting 
hot,  and  the  nurse  pushed  me  away. 

"Keep  the  hat  you  got  on,  Kid." 

I  could  barely  hear  his  voice.  His  face  was  not  very 
red  now.  How  I  wished  he  could  see  the  pain  inside 
of  me  for  him.  "Keep  the  hat  you  got  on,  Kid.  I'll  get 
another  if  I  don't  croak.'" 

The  doctor  hung  around  Fogarty 's  cot  the  next  night. 
The  nurse  had  drawn  a  chair  close  to  him.  I  held  a  lan 
tern  near.  The  rain  clouds  were  venting  themselves  out 
side. 

''Watch  out  for  Mint  Julep,  Kid,"  mumbled  poor  Fo 
garty.  He  was  not  looking  at  me.  His  eyes  stared  at  the 
sleeping  flies  on  top  of  the  tent.  His  eyelids  were  far 
apart. 

"They'll  be  good  friends — Julep  and  the  Kid — both 
dam  good  fellows.  .  .  .  Nope — not  drinking  a  thing 
— sworn  off — ask  the  Kid.  Oh,  I  forgot ;  the  Kid's  gone 
home  to  his  mother — got  sick,  you  know — nice  little  chap, 
the  Kid — make  a  good  soldier.  Gone  home — way  up 
North — to  his  mother." 

The  nurse  fanned  him.  His  eyes  still  stared  at  the 
sleeping  flies.  The  nurse  knew  then  that  Fogarty  was 
picked  out  for  a  fifth  man.  Silently  she  fanned  him  and 
watched. 

Not  long  after  that  Fogarty  was  mustered  out  of  the 
service. 

And  all  this  is  to  show  how  I  peered  under  the  veneer, 
which  environment  made,  and  saw  a  great,  warm  heart. 


The  Story  of  a  Cavalry  Horse, 


THE  STORY  OF  A  CAVALRY  HORSE. 


There  was  something  of  pathos  in  the  high,  clear 
whinny  which  was  borne  across  the  meadows  one  sum 
mer  morning  of  years  ago.  A  fancy  black  three-year-old, 
trotting  behind  a  shiny  buckboard,  picked  up  his  ears 
and  answered  his  mother  in  the  only  way  he  knew.  The 
big  man  in  the  buckboard  was  a  professional  horse-buyer 
for  Uncle  Sam's  cavalry. 

"Scream  again,  my  young  beauty,  while  you've  got  the 
chance,"  the  man  said.  "You'll  soon  be  far  away  from 
these  meadows  and  the  old  lady  over  yonder  who  calls  to 
you." 

The  horse  buyer  looked  back  at  the  shapely  gelding. 
His  experienced  eye  took  in  the  wide-distended  nostrils 
with  their  crimson  lining;  the  large,  intelligent  eyes  as 
dark  and  deep  as  a  starless  ocean.  The  man  in  the  buck- 
board  saw  again  the  easy  grace  of  the  colt's  stride,  the 
power  and  elegance  of  his  flat,  thin  limbs,  the  arched 
beauty  of  his  glossy  neck — and  he  chuckled  at  his  bar 
gain.  Faint  and  far-away  was  heard  the  neigh  of  the 
mother  back  in  the  meadows.  The  colt  plunged  a  little, 
whinnied  nervously,  and  trotted  on. 


214         The  Story  of  a  Cavalry  Horse. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  recruits  in  the  cavalry  service — 
the  horses  and  men.  Both  must  be  instructed  in  the  pri 
mary  mysteries  of  drills  and  bugle-calls.  Both  suffer 
during  the  first  days,  but  gradually  the  unvarying  system 
becomes  grafted  into  the  very  nature  of  the  trooper  and 
his  mount.  They  need  only  to  be  parted  from  the  life  for 
a  little  while  to  learn  how  dearly  they  love  it.  Here  is  the 
story  of  a  wild,  irresponsible  colt,  whose  brain  was  full  of 
mother  and  meadow  memories,  and  who  became  Sheri 
dan,  the  pride  of  a  Black  Horse  troop.  In  many  ways  it 
is  the  story  of  any  cavalry  horse. 

Long  after  he  became  the  joy  of  his  master  and  the 
envy  of  every  other  cavalryman,  Sheridan  still  remem 
bered  those  dark,  awful  days  in  the  corral.  Every  good 
trooper  knows  that  a  horse  can  suffer  mentally,  and  that 
a  colt  is  like  a  child,  inasmuch  as  he  does  not  forget  his 
mother  and  his  first  associations  in  a  day.  And  when  a 
big  cavalryman  is  seen  to  pet  and  cheer  a  lonely,  tremb 
ling  stranger  on  the  picket  line,  you  can  usually  judge 
that  he  is  a  good  soldier  and  a  man  with  a  human  heart. 

There  were  many  nervous  youngsters  in  the  corral 
where  the  black  three-year-old  was  turned  loose.  Many 
of  them  snorted  wildly  and  stood  at  bay  when  a  man 
approached.  The  pretty  gelding  with  soft,  jetty  eyes — 
the  little  heart-hungry  three-year-old — was  soon  to  learn 
what  made  the  other  horses  so  wicked  and  fearful. 

There  was  the  curling  swish  of  a  lariat,  a  sickening  jar 
from  the  taut  rope — then  the  black  gelding  fell  heavily  to 
the  turf.  One  horseman  sat  upon  the  trembling  animal's 


The  Story  of  a  Cavalry  Horse.         215 

head,  and  another  pressed  a  biting,  burning  steel  into  the 
glossy  softness  of  his  shoulder.  For  an  eternity  it  seemed 
to  sizzle  into  the  writhing  flesh ;  then  again  the  red  iron 
was  pressed  against  the  tenderest  skin  under  the  mane. 
After  that  there  was  weakness  and  nausea  and  the  wounds 
gradually  healed  into  the  mark  by  which  every  cavalry 
horse  can  be  distinguished.  "U.  S."  is  what  the  letters 
read. 

Then  followed  the  week's  ride  to  the  regiment — that 
stifling  ride  in  a  freight  car — packed  flank  to  flank  so  that 
there  would  be  no  injury  from  the  jolting  of  the  train. 
Oh,  how  the  unhealed  shoulders  rubbed  and  burned! 
The  black  gelding's  limbs  stung  with  weariness ;  his 
tongue  was  shrunken  and  dried  from  thirst,  his  whole 
body  craved  for  hay  and  grain.  The  tightening  lariat, 
the  burning  steel,  the  killing  ride — all  helped  to  create 
in  the  brute  mind  a  lasting  horror  toward  human  kind 
and  wicked  thoughts.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  some  troop- 
horses  are  painfully  slow  in  giving  their  trust  to  the  cav 
alryman  who  grooms  and  cares  for  them? 

But  the  glossy  three-year-old  was  not  ruined  by  the 
suffering  of  those  first  days.  Perhaps  it  was  a  perfect 
balance  of  mind,  which  the  old  lady  back  in  the  meadows 
had  given  him,  which  caused  the  black  recruit  to  suffer 
and  be  gentle  still.  There  was  wonderment  and  fear  in 
those  great,  dark  eyes,  but  no  sullen  hatred  lurked  there. 
The  shapely  youngster  staggered  out  into  the  clear  day 
light,  trembling  for  the  events  which  another  day  might 
bring,  yet  hoping  for  brighter  things.  A  detachment  of 


216         The  Story  of  a  Cavalry  Horse. 

boys  in  blue  led  him  away  to  the  Black  Horse  troop,  and 
his  Jife  in  the  cavalry  service  began  with  a  deep,  delicious 
drink  at  the  watering-trough  and  a  nosebag  full  of  fresh 
grain. 

Old  cavalrymen  are  not  always  charitable  to  a  recruit. 
Old  cavalry  horses  are  never  hospitable  to  a  stranger  on 
the  picket  line.  If  placed  at  a  distance,  he  is  only  re 
garded  with  distrust ;  if  placed  within  reach  of  the  heels  of 
the  veteran  chargers — well,  the  stranger  will  kick  back  if 
he  is  spunky  enough.  Friendships  are  mighty  on  a 
picket  line,  but  they  are  not  molded  in  a  day. 

"Ah,  you're  a  trim  little  black  baby,"  said  a  tall  trooper 
close  to  the  ear  of  the  dark  stranger  the  first  night.  His 
words  made  the  colt  very  happy.  The  cavalryman  gently 
slapped  the  glossy  breast.  "There  is  blood  in  your  veins, 
my  little  man ;  and  your  eyes  are  as  black  and  bright  as 
a  squaw  maiden's.  Why,  your  chest  sticks  out  like  a 
game  chicken's!  Quit  breathing  on  my  neck,  young 
ster.  Don't  you  know  that  isn't  polite? 

"By  jove,  I  like  you,  little  black  man!  Do  you  sup 
pose  you're  heavy  enough  to  dance  around  the  parade- 
ground  with  a  big  fellow  like  me  on  your  back  ?  If  you 
were  mine,  I'd  have  your  black  sides  shining  like  a  piece 
of  oiled  silk  in  ten  days.  Whoever  taught  you  to  go  nos 
ing  about  a  fellow's  neck  and  ears?  I  suppose  they 
treated  you  pretty  rough  up  there  in  the  corral,  but  you 
didn't  lose  your  nerve,  did  you,  kid?  Why,  you're  as 
gentle  as  a  young  girl  with  her  big  sister's  first  baby! 


The  Story  of  a  Cavalry  Horse.         217 

Guess  we  could  serve  out  an  enlistment  pretty  well  to 
gether." 

It  all  came  about  that  the  new  gelding  was  issued  to  the 
tall  trooper,  and  after  that  he  was  known  as  Sheridan  in 
the  Black  Horse  troop.  The  first  thing  which  any  cav 
alry  horse  learns  is  that  a  certain  bugle-call  sounds  at 
headquarters  twice  a  day,  and  that  it  causes  every  cavalry 
man  to  run  for  a  filled  nosebag.  Then  an  officer  shouts : 

"Feed,"  after  which  the  filled  nosebag  is  strapped  in  the 
proper  place.  Sheridan  learned  to  whinny  expectantly 
with  the  others,  when  the  feed-call  sounded.  But  all  the 
calls  and  army  movements  were  a  perfect  chaos  in  the 
black  recruit's  brain  at  first.  He  wondered  why  he  was 
left  behind  in  the  morning  when  all  other  horses,  save 
sick  ones,  were  saddled,  formed  into  platoons  and  ridden 
away.  Sheridan  tried  hard  to  stand  quietly  when  the 
regulation  saddle  was  first  cinshed  about  him  by  the  tall 
trooper.  He  tried  very  hard  to  do  the  right  thing  and 
keep  his  four  feet  near  the  turf,  when  the  man  mounted. 
But  there  was  spirit  in  the  black  recruit.  He  would  be 
come  nervous,  in  spite  of  the  reassuring  whispers  of  the 
big  cavalryman,  and  he  would  plunge  and  fret  when  he 
did  not  understand. 

Gradually,  however,  Sheridan  learned  to  feel  the 
thoughts  of  his  gentle,  patient  rider.  He  learned  to 
wheel  at  the  touch  of  a  spurless  heel.  He  learned  to  an 
swer  the  weight  of  a  -bridle-rein  upon  his  neck,  and  from 
the  indefinable  sameness  of  the  many  bugle  commands, 
there  emerged  familiar  notes  to  the  ears  of  the  black 


218         The  Story  of  a  Cavalry  Horse. 

gelding.  Like  every  other  troop-horse,  Sheridan's 
nerves  thrilled  when  the  "dash"  music  burst  with  a  scream 
from  the  trumpet. 

"Trot,"  calls  the  troop  commander.  The  bugle  re 
peats  it.  A  hundred  dusty  campaign  hats  are  jerked 
roughly  downward.  A  hundred  horses  feel  a  tightening 
bit.  "Sherry"  rears  a  little,  but  does  not  mar  the  beauty 
of  the  line. 

"Gallop,"  the  bugle  plays.  The  horses  plunge  high  in 
the  ecstacy  of  anticipation.  There  is  fiery  crimson  in 
every  wide-stretched  nostril.  Every  trooper's  face  is 
covered  with  dust  and  moisture.  Every  trooper's  jaws 
are  shut  like  a  vise,  and  every  bridle-arm  is  as  stiff  as 
steel. 

"Draw!  Saber!"  Listen  to  the  rattle  of  a  hundred 
lightened  sheaths.  Watch  the  sweep  of  a  hundred  flash 
ing  blades.  The  sun  is  playing  with  the  sabers.  The 
points  are  held  forward,  shoulder  high  and  horizontal. 

"Charge !"  Like  an  engine  answers  to  an  open  throt 
tle,  the  horses  settle  down.  Flank  to  flank  they  leap  for 
ward.  Madly  the  men  yell.  Stirrup  touches  stirrup.  A 
dust  cloud  follows. 

"As  fast  as  the  slowest  horse,"  the  officers  have  often 
warned. 

There  is  no  slowest  horse !  It  is  a  race — a  wild,  strain 
ing,  exhilarating  race.  The  horses  bound  low.  The  men 
feel  under  them  a  moveless  saddle.  Not  a  head  mars  the 
symmetry  of  the  line.  It  is  beautiful,  with  an  awful 
beauty — this  American  cavalry  dash ! 


The  Story  of  a  Cavalry  Horse.         219 

Sheridan  trembled  for  hours  after  it,  even  while  the  tall 
trooper  caressed  him. 

"Why,  Sherry,  your  gait  is  a  lullaby,"  the  big  cavalry 
man  would  say.  "You  dash  like  a  shooting  star.  You're 
a  born  soldier,  bright  eyes,  and  the  best  horse  in  the 
troop.  .  .  .  No,  I  haven't  any  sugar  stowed  away  in 
that  shirt  pocket,  so  you  needn't  nose  for  it.  Maybe  I 
didn't  know  a  good  thing  when  I  picked  you  out.  What 
have  I  ever  done  that  you  should  knock  my  hat  off  with 
your  nose.  Ah,  you're  a  playful  little  darkey-joker !" 

At  the  watering-trough  Sheridan  touched  noses  with 
Poncho  and  made  friends.  Another  day  he  walked  close 
to  the  heels  of  Rio  Grande,  a  long,  black-bodied  charger, 
and  the  latter  did  not  even  lower  his  ears.  Again  he  was 
tethered  next  to  Cherokee  on  the  picket  line,  and  the  two 
became  chummy.  The  black  gelding  was  a  troop-horse 
now ;  "one  of  the  fanciest,"  who  knew  no  life  nor  desired 
to  know  no  other  than  that  of  the  cavalry.  The  whinny 
which  floated  over  the  meadows  that  summer  morning 
long  ago  was  only  a  misty  memory.  And  all  the  while 
there  grew  in  the  mind  of  the  beautiful  black  a  deeper, 
truer  affection  for  the  tall  trooper  who  groomed  and 
petted  him. 

But  men  come  and  go  in  every  cavalry  outfit — the 
horses  seldom  change.  Old  soldiers  finish  their  terms  of 
enlistment,  recruits  come  in.  Sheridan,  every  inch  for 
the  cavalry,  lost  his  old  master  whom  he  loved.  He  was 
sought  after  by  each  man  in  the  troop — and  he  tried 
bravely  and  sorrowfully  to  become  attached  to  his  new 


22O         The  Story  of  a  Cavalry  Horse. 

owner.  ...  At  times  one  of  his  old  friends  would 
be  missed  from  the  picket  line  and  never  seen  again.  Was 
there  to  be  an  end  to  this  breezy,  beautiful  life? 

The  sun  of  a  Tampa  summer  faded  the  black  gloss  from 
Sheridan's  back,  and  every  other  animal  in  the  Black- 
Horse  troop  was  hued  like  the  shoulders  of  a  preacher  3 
old  coat  when  that  summer  was  ended.  But  Sherry  was 
mighty  still.  Not  one  of  the  six  hundred  horses  with 
stood  better  the  horrors  of  the  transport  during  an  eleven 
days'  trip  from  the  States  to  Ponce,  Porto  Rico.  Where 
the  lower  tier  of  horses  were  kept,  the  air  was  heavy  with 
death.  The  cavalrymen,  half  mad  through  weariness, 
threw  pails  of  salt  water  upon  the  drooping  horses.  The 
eyes  of  the  animals  were  filmy  and  half  closed.  Many 
sank  and  moved  not  again  until  the  hoisting  gear  raised 
them  up  through  the  hatches,  suspended  them  over  the 
vessel's  side,  and  the  rope  was  severed.  And  the  cavalry 
men,  who  loved  their  horses,  watched  them  silently  as 
they  dropped  into  the  tropical  sea.  Troopers  can  live 
through  such  a  trip,  and  feel  only  achings  in  the  head ; 
but  no  horse  has  the  vitality  of  his  rider. 

And  Sheridan,  no  longer  a  four-year-old,  climbed  the 
muddy  hills  of  Porto  Rico's  interior,  as  strong  of  wind 
and  sure  of  foot  as  any  native  pony.  Other  horses  choked 
and  died  of  pneumonia,  caused  by  the  endless  rain,  but 
Sherry  stood  upon  his  feet  in  the  daytime  and  whinnied 
when  the  feed-call  sounded.  Sherry  did  not  know  that 
his  best  days  were  spent. 

At  last  there  came  a  morning  when  many  new  horses 


The  Story  of  a  Cavalry  Horse.         221 

were  brought  to  the  troop  headquarters.  Something 
pained  pitilessly  in  the  brain  of  the  splendid  old  charger 
when  he  saw  his  master  studying  and  stroking  the  limbs 
of  those  recruits.  After  that  Sherry  had  no  master.  For 
a  little  while  he  was  used  for  recruits  to  practice  upon. 

"Old  Sherry  wouldn't  hurt  a  baby,"  the  first  sergeant 
would  say  to  the  embryo  cavalryman.  There  were  no 
more  pettings ;  no  more  sugar  during  those  last  days  in 
Porto  Rico,  but  deep  down  in  the  heart  of  the  old  black 
gelding  there  was  a  hurting  wound.  The  soft  dark  eyes 
were  wise  and  mild  still,  but  at  times  they  would  seem  to 
fill  with  shame  and  sadness. 

Sheridan  could  not  keep  back  the  weight  which  the 
years  brought,  nor  the  stiffness  which  came  from  the 
muddy  Porto  Rican  hills.  He  thought  more  during  those 
long,  rainy  days  of  the  mother  who  had  called  to  him 
from  the  far-away  meadows.  He  longed  for  the  first 
trooper  who  had  so  patiently  taught  him  to  be  a  good 
cavalry  horse.  Old  Sherry  drowsed  and  dreamed  of  the 
campaigns  when  he  was  the  pride  of  the  Black  Horse 
troop — poor  old  Sherry. 

Then  there  came  a  sad,  prophetic  day.  He  learned 
then  what  had  become  of  his  old  friends,  Buster,  Chero 
kee,  Rio  Grande,  Poncho  and  Mint  Julep. 

Again  there  was  the  crushing  weight  of  the  tightened 
lariat,  the  red  iron  and  the  nausea.  "I.  C."  were  the  let 
ters  which  slowly  healed  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  old 
troop-horse  now.  "Inspected  and  Condemned,"  is  what 
the  letters  mean.  Back  to  the  hated  civilian  the  veteran 


222         The  Story  of  a  Cavalry  Horse. 

of  the  Black  Horse  troop  must  go.  Sheridan  was  auc 
tioned  off  for  "what  he  would  bring."  Oh,  the  shame  of 
it! 

No  cavalry  horses  are  ever  brought  back  from  Porto 
Rico.  A  rich  Spanish  planter  led  the  old  black  away 
from  the  life  he  loved.  Over  the  muddy  hills  was  borne 
the  bugle  call  for  feeding.  Sheridan  raised  his  head, 
whinnied  and  looked  back.  The  Spaniard  pulled  at  the 
halter,  and  the  old  troop-horse — no  longer — obeyed  as 
he  had  always  done. 

There  were  only  a  few  days  more.  The  morning 
dawned  when  Sherry  did  not  regain  his  feet.  His  soft, 
dark  eyes  seemed  to  linger  upon  other  scenes.  There 
was  something  unreadable  in  their  misty  depths.  His  old 
friends,  the  life  and  the  trooper  whom  he  had  loved — all 
were  gone.  He  would  not  touch  grain.  Even  the 
strength  of  the  mighty  Sheridan  had  left  him.  No  cav 
alryman  stood  by  to  hold  that  drooping  head  and  to 
cheer  that  breaking  heart.  .  .  .  There  was  nothing 
left  but  the  ghost  of  the  old  black  charger — a  ghost  with 
a  broken  heart. 

But  in  the  regulations  it  reads  that  old  cavalry  horse 
must  be  condemned  and  sold  "for  what  they  will  bring." 


A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 


A  SOLDIER  AND  A  MAN 


A  certain  trooper  riding  through  the  poverty  district 
of  Ciales  with  a  main  guard  detail,  glanced  at  a  native 
senorita  whose  features  were  pretty.  Since  the  senorita 
glanced  back,  the  trooper  smiled,  as  any  other  American 
soldier  would  have  done.  It  was  only  the  smile  of  a 
second  on  the  part  of  the  soldier,  because  there  was  some 
thing  about  the  face  of  the  red  maiden  which  was  like 
the  scratch  of  a  pin  upon  the  naked  nerve.  The  next 
day  when  the  main  guard  was  relieved,  if  you  had  ques 
tioned  the  cavalryman  concerning  the  circumstance,  he 
would  have  remembered  it  with  difficulty,  because  it  made 
no  impression. 

But  the  red  maiden  did  not  forget.  At  the  moment, 
the  smile  of  the  soldier  was  a  thrill  to  her,  and  in  the 
night  it  became  a  dream,  and  the  next  day  it  was  a  mem 
ory — restless,  imperious,  passionate. 

Her  name  was  Eulalie.  If  she  ever  had  another,  she 
did  not  remember  it  any  more  than  she  remembered  who 
her  father  and  her  mother  were.  Nor  would  she  have 
cared  had  not  the  other  senoritas  in  the  poverty  district 
reminded  her  day  after  day  that  her  family  was  a  name 
less  thing.  Because  the  other  senoritas  were  at  least  posi- 


228  A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 

tive  on  the  point  of  their  mothers,  they  delighted  in 
nursing  the  torrid  venom  which  was  in  Eulalie's  nature, 
through  their  indelicate  suggestions. 

There  was  another  thing,  however,  which  hurt  her  far 
more  cruelly  than  the  biting  words  of  her  little  red  sister 
maidens.  It  was  the  same  thing  which  jarred  upon  the 
nerves  of  the  trooper,  who  rode  by  with  the  main  guard. 
And  since  the  American  cavalrymen  had  been  quartered 
in  the  old  Spanish  barracks  at  Ciales,  where  Eulalie 
lived,  she  had  truly  learned  the  horrid  pain  which  was 
her  misfortune. 

There  is  majesty  and  ardor  and  romance  in  the  dark 
Spanish  eyes  of  the  Porto  Rican  senoritas,  but  their  teeth 
are  imperfect,  and  this  is  because  the  rain-showered  hills 
of  their  native  land  are  full  of  sugar  and  acid.  The 
sweetness  is  drawn  up  in  the  stalk  of  the  cane  and  in  the 
shaft  of  the  cocoa-palm,  and  the  acid  is  absorbed  by  the 
orange  and  lemon  trees.  The  combination  has  spoiled 
the  smile  of  many  a  red  maiden,  and  caused  tooth-ache 
remedies  to  rank  next  in  importance  to  quinine  in  the 
chests  of  the  regimental  surgeon-major. 

When  Eulalie  was  a  very  little  girl  there  had  come 
to  her  a  deeper  affliction.  She  remembered  very  little 
about  it  now — hardly  anything  except  that  a  dark-faced 
fellow  had  struck  her,  and  then  kicked  her  afterward, 
because  the  hand  wbich  he  had  used  was  bleeding.  After 
that  there  was  a  dark  hole,  where  Eulalie's  two  front 
teeth  should  have  been.  Perhaps  the  little  red  maiden 
would  never  have  cared  had  not  the  American  cavalry- 


A  Soldier  and  a  Man.  229 

men  come  to  live  in  the  old  Spanish  garrison,  which  was 
only  a  little  way  from  the  poverty  district  where  Eulalie 
slept  at  night. 

In  truth,  she  might  have  married  Manrique  Robles, 
the  ox-driver,  and  lived  in  a  little  shack  on  the  Manati 
trail,  but  there  was  much  of  garlic  about  Manrique,  and 
much  of  ill-temper,  as  the  scarred  flanks  of  his  steers 
would  testify.  Besides,  she  had  seen  the  big,  white 
cavalrymen  who  came  from  the  Northland,  and  she  hated 
Manrique  when  she  noticed  how  polite  he  was  to  them. 
Besides,  some  of  her  red  sister  maidens  had  barkened 
unto  the  strange  language  of  these  white  horsemen,  and 
was  it  not  whispered  that  the  same  maidens  had  parted 
their  lips  for  the  kisses  of  the  men  who  spoke  this  lan 
guage  ? 

Indeed,  she  would  not  marry  Manrique,  for  he  was 
very  ugly  and  very  black;  and  when  the  Manati  fords 
were  high  and  impassable  so  that  he  could  not  go  down 
the  trail  with  his  ox-cart,  there  was  always  blended  with 
the  garlic  about  him  the  odor  of  white  rum,  and  then 
Manrique  was  uglier  than  ever. 

But  would  the  big  cavalrymen  ever  smile  upon  her? 
Would  she  not  become; — if  she  refused  to  marry  Man 
rique — would  she  not  become  like  Mad  Marie  who  slept 
in  the  jail,  and  all  day  long  staggered  about  the  streets, 
lugging  a  half-dead  baby,  and  begging  for  centavos  with 
which  to  buy  more  rum — begging  forever?  Would  the 
big  cavalrymen  ever  smile  at  her,  when  she  was  so  ugly 
to  look  upon?  Would  not  the  other  senoritas  tell  the 


230  A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 

white  soldiers  that  she  was  nameless?  Oh,  why  was  she 
born  so?  Why  did  her  sister  maidens  persecute  her  so? 

"Ave  Marie!"  Eulalie  would  mutter  despairingly  when 
her  mind  burned  with  all  these  thoughts.  Even  if  she 
did  not  know  her  mother,  there  was  hunger  in  her  heart 
just  the  same.  Even  if  she  was  without  two  front  teeth, 
there  was  ardor  in  her  soul  just  the  same.  Yes,  and  there 
was  a  rare  softness  in  her  cheeks,  and  little  beauty  tints 
that  were  as  faint  as  they  were  wonderful.  And  there 
was  a  thrilling  sadness  in  her  great,  dark,  Spanish  eyes, 
and  long  lashes  shaded  these  tropical  gems  lest  they 
should  shine  too  brightly.  And  her  hair — Eulalie's  hair 
— ah,  it  was  as  dusky  as  the  night  in  a  rayless  Rio  Grande 
gorge,  and  it  was  as  soft  as — ah,  but  there  was  nothing 
so  soft  as  Eulalie's  hair ! 

But  Eulalie  knew  only  that  she  was  nameless,  and  that 
she  was  ugly  when  her  red  lips  were  parted,  for  the 
other  senoritas  did  not  tell  her  more  than  this.  And 
after  the  big,  white  cavalrymen  came,  every  day  she 
cared  less  for  Manrique,  and  every  day  she  hated  herself 
more,  because  the  soldiers  laughed  and  made  love  to  the 
other  senoritas,  but  did  not  come  near  her.  When  the 
moon-beams  whitened  the  hard  clay  of  the  plaza,  the 
soldiers  strolled  up  and  down,  and  in  low  tones  they 
repeated  all  the  Spanish  words  they  knew  into  the  ears 
of  the  other  little  red  maidens;  but  Eulalie  was  alone, 
except  for  when  Manrique  was  very  persistent. 

And  at  last  the  great  day  came,  when  the  trooper  rode 
through  the  poverty  district  with  the  main  guard  detail — 


A  Soldier  and  a  Man.  231 

and  smiled  for  a  single,  memorable,  rapturous  second — 
and  was  gone. 

Trooper  Arden  was  respected,  if  not  understood.  And 
let  it  be  known  that  a  private  soldier  is  not  respected 
by  his  fellows  without  reason.  Trooper  Arden  won  the 
regard  of  the  other  troopers  in  seven  minutes,  on  the 
hurricane  deck  of  a  transport,  the  second  day  out  from 
Savannah. 

When  one  writes  that  Corporal  Carey  was  a  good  sol 
dier,  it  does  not  necessarily  imply  that  he  was  a  good 
fellow;  but  nobody  ever  said  that  the  corporal  wasn't 
game  to  the  backbone.  Anyway,  the  corporal  was  Irish 
and  proud  of  the  force  in  his  fists.  In  fact,  the  whole 
troop  was  proud  of  Carey,  just  the  same  as  it  would 
be  proud  of  owning  the  fastest  horse  in  a  regiment. 
Trooper  Arden  sacrificed  Corporal  Carey,  and  thereby 
attained  the  respect  of  his  fellows.  It  was  legitimate, 
and  this  way: 

"Oi  could  lave  you  fur  dead  in  tirty  seconds,"  said 
the  corporal,  on  the  hurricane  deck,  and  the  crowd 
lounged  closer. 

"If  I  should  fight  you,"  Arden  replied  quietly,  "I  would 
be  court-martialed  for  hitting  an  officer." 

"The  nerve  av  him !"  jeered  the  corporal.  "If  Oi  win, 
Oi'm  an  officer — if  Oi  lose,  Oi'm  a  man,  and  a  scrubby 
little  wart  at  that." 

"Then  I'll  fight  you,"  said  Arden  wearily,  tossing  away 
a  cigarette. 


232  A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 

In  the  forward  hold  of  the  transport,  a  temporary 
hospital  had  been  fitted  up.  Corporal  Carey  dragged 
himself  thither  twice  daily  during  the  remainder  of  the 
voyage.  And  so  it  was  that  one  soldier  gained  respect 
for  himself. 

But  Trooper  Arden  was  not  understood.  He  ate  less, 
slept  less,  and  talked  less  than  any  other  man  in  the 
troop.  Six  out  of  every  eleven  regular  soldiers  smoke 
cigarettes.  Arden  smoked  more  than  any  two  men  in 
the  outfit.  For  supper  he  would  invariably  draw  double 
rations  of  coffee.  When  taps  sounded  and  the  lights 
were  ordered  out,  the  cups  untouched  might  be  seen  on 
the  box  beside  his  bunk.  At  reveille  in  the  morning  the 
cups  were  still  there,  but  they  were  empty.  If  you  were 
in  the  same  squad  with  Arden,  and  you  happened  to  wake 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  you  would  be  apt  to  see 
the  face  of  the  trooper  glowing  behind  a  cigarette.  He 
never  seemed  tired,  never  missed  a  call,  never  complained, 
never  swore — all  of  which  was  unsoldierly. 

He  was  lean,  dark,  and  without  fear.  By  his  face  you 
would  not  know  whether  he  had  been  a  preacher  or  a 
gambler  before  his  enlistment.  He  was  nervous,  but  not 
irritable ;  reserved,  but  not  impolite ;  educated,  but  a  good 
fellow  still.  On  pay-days  he  gambled.  He  lost  cheer 
fully,  but  seldom.  He  won  carelessly.  He  drank,  but 
you  would  never  know  it  unless  you  happened  to  see 
him.  Arden  was  a  mystery — a  mystery  with  a  grudge 
against  himself.  Perhaps  it  was  his  other  life  that  made 
him  so. 


A  Soldier  and  a  Man.  233 

It  was  Trooper  Arden  who  smiled  at  Eulalie  and 
turned  his  head  away  so  quickly,  while  riding  with  the 
main  guard  that  morning.  In  an  hour  later  he  had  for 
gotten.  His  horse  was  Palto,  the  unkillable,  whose  tem 
per  was  as  rocky  as  his  sinews  were  tough — Palto,  the 
six-year-old,  who  alone  kept  his  appetite  during  the 
eleven-day  transport  horror,  and  who  kicked  out  of  pure 
joy  every  time  a  nose-bag  was  strapped  over  his  white 
face.  Palto  had  a  habit  of  kicking  promiscuously,  any 
way.  He  also  bit  with  abandon,  but  he  was  solid  with 
Trooper  Arden. 

Only  one  thing  beside  the  trooper's  smile  did  Eulalie, 
the  little  red  maiden,  remember  the  next  day;  and, 
strangely  enough,  this  one  thing  was  that  the  horse 
which  her  soldier  had  ridden  was  possessed  of  a  white 
face. 

And  that  evening  just  after  retreat,  Arden  walked 
down  to  the  stables  just  to  be  alone,  and  in  the  twilight 
he  saw  queer  things. 

It  was  quite  dark  under  the  canvas  of  the  stables,  and 
as  Arden  strolled  nearer,  he  heard  sounds  soft  and  low — 
the  sound  of  words  which  were  strangely  sweet.  The 
trooper  paused  and  watched,  rolling  a  cigarette  mean 
while.  The  troop  horses  were  grinding  at  their  oats 
and  snorting  the  dust  of  the  dry  hay  from  their  nostrils. 
.  .  .  Surely,  here  was  something  wonderful !  Was 
there  not  some  one  standing  close  to  the  white  face  of 
Palto,  the  unkillable? 

Yes,  and  it  was  a  girlish  form,  and  her  head  was  snug- 


234  A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 

gled  closely  into  the  mane  of  Palto,  the  white-faced. 
And,  Carainba!  The  brute  Palto  was  as  gentle  as  the 
girl  herself !  Trooper  Arden  crept  closer.  The  cigarette 
remained  nnlit  in  his  lips.  Far  up  the  trail  the  great 
white  cliffs  were  monstrous  gray  and  gloomy,  standing 
out  against  the  purple  of  evening.  Beyond  the  stars  were 
growing  and  whitening.  A  bunch  of  cavalrymen  in  the 
plaza  were  singing  a  song  of  the  Northland. 

"Buenos  nochas,  senorita,"  Trooper  Arden  said  softly. 
He  looked  like  a  different  fellow  when  he  smiled  as  he 
did  that  moment. 

Eulalie  turned.  The  cavalryman  could  not  see  the  ter 
ror  that  was  in  her  great,  dark  eyes.  Slowly  he  ap 
proached  and  placed  his  hand  gently  upon  her  arm.  With 
the  other  he  rubbed  the  forehead  of  Palto,  the  unkillable, 
talking  softly  all  the  while.  And  gradually  there  crept 
into  the  soul  of  the  little  red  maiden  a  joy  which  was 
great  and  new.  There  was  no  need  to  fear,  for  had  not 
the  big  soldier  smiled?  After  a  little  while  Eulalie 
pressed  her  lips  to  the  soft  muzzle  of  the  troop  horse; 
and  strangely  enough  Palto,  of  reputations  numerously 
bad,  seemed  to  like  it. 

And  Trooper  Arden  smiled  again,  and  walked  out  to 
ward  the  forage-tent,  while  Eulalie  followed.  Standing 
there  in  the  fading  twilight,  an  impulse  came  to  the  sol 
dier — an  impulse  which  he  had  long  thought  was  dead 
within  him.  He  kissed  the  little  red  maiden. 

There  was  something  about  that  kiss  which  made  the 
trooper  reflect.  Perhaps  his  thoughts  concerned  some 


A  Soldier  and  a  Man.  235 

other  woman  whom  he  knew  before  he  became  an  atom 
in  the  great  blue  mass  of  Uncle  Sam's  horsemen.  Per 
haps — but  that  would  be  irrelevant!  In  a  moment  more 
he  was  the  man  with  a  grudge  against  himself,  and  he 
uttered  this  exclamation: 

"Ba-ah!" 

Eulalie  shuddered  slightly,  though  she  did  not  under 
stand.  Arden  grasped  her  arm  softly  as  if  in  apology, 
and  the  two  walked  out  of  the  corral  toward  the  trail. 
As  they  passed  a  clump  of  low  palms,  a  native  emerged. 
Unconsciously  Eulalie  shrank  closer  to  the  soldier.  A 
second  afterward  she  turned  and  saw  a  look  upon  the 
native's  face  which  caused  her  to  shudder  again.  And 
this  time  she  understood.  The  native  was  Manrique,  the 
ox-driver,  and  he  had  bowed  with  abject  courtesy  to  the 
soldier. 

A  little  later  Trooper  Arden  sank  down  upon  his  bunk 
to  smoke  and  think,  and  Eulalie  hastened  away  toward 
the  poverty  district,  where  her  home  was.  Ah,  but  she 
was  a  very  happy  little  red  maiden  that  hour!  The  sol 
diers  were  still  lounging  and  humming  in  the  plaza,  for 
taps  had  not  yet  sounded.  Mad  Marie,  who  begged  eter 
nally  for  the  centavos,  had  attained  a  state  of  melancholy 
inebriation  by  this  time,  and  was  howling  in  a  maudlin 
monotone  in  front  of  the  quarters.  A  couple  of  native 
policemen  dragged  her  into  the  jail,  which  was  also  a 
poor-house,  and  the  soldiers,  watching,  laughed  among 
themselves.  Her  child  was  silent  in  the  woman's  arms. 

After  taps  sounded  one  might  have  seen  Manrique,  the 


236  A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 

ox-driver,  drinking  white  rum  in  the  cafe.  His  face  was 
not  pleasant  to  look  upon.  And  when  the  cafe  was  closed 
and  he  could  stay  no  longer,  Manrique  staggered  over  to 
the  poverty  district  of  the  town  and  paused  in  front  of 
one  of  the  shacks.  Loudly  he  kicked  the  bolted  door. 
There  was  no  reply,  and  he  kicked  again  and  a  third  time. 
Then  he  staggered  away  toward  his  own  shack  on  the 
Manati  trail.  And  as  he  went,  Manrique  cursed  in  a 
strange  tongue. 

Everywhere  about  him  was  the  black  shade  of  a  moon 
less  tropical  night,  and  everywhere  above  him  was  the 
white  glory  of  the  tropical  stars. 

******** 

"What  in  the  devil  do  you  call  that  beast  Talto' 
for?"  whispered  a  trooper  standing  next  to  Arden  at 
grooming-time  the  next  morning. 

Any  soldier  knows  that  no  talking  is  allowed  at  groom 
ing.  That  is  why  the  man  next  to  Arden  whispered  his 
question.  Palto,  the  unkillable,  had  just  damaged  the 
hide  of  the  troop  horse  nearest.  At  regular  intervals  the 
white-faced  was  facetious,  and  he  invariably  vented  it 
in  this  manner  on  any  live  thing  which  happened  to 
be  near,  so  long  as  it  was  not  Trooper  Arden.  The  latter 
eyed  the  other  soldier  curiously  for  a  second,  and  then  an 
swered  the  question  in  this  manner: 

"A  woman  I  used  to  know  back  in  the  States  had  a 
habit  of  calling  her  dog  Talto.'  " 

The  soldier  who  asked  the  question  grinned  forbear- 


A  Soldier  and  a  Man.  237 

ingly,  said  nothing  further,  and  arrived  at  this  conclu 
sion: 

"Arden  is  a  soldier  because  some  white  woman  threw 
him  down.  He  is  eating  his  heart  out  because  he  landed 
hard  and  cannot  forget." 

The  conjecture  was  a  safe  one,  but  the  soldier  did  not 
guess  that  the  dog  which  the  woman  had  called  "Palto" 
and  the  trooper  who  smoked  cigarettes  and  drank  black 
coffee  while  other  troopers  slept,  were  both  embodied  in 
the  one  being,  who  was  scrubbing  the  mud  of  Porto 
Rican  hills  from  the  hocks  of  the  white-faced. 

"Cease  grooming!"  shouted  the  top-sergeant.  The 
features  of  Trooper  Arden  were  a  study  of  grimness  as 
he  walked  up  the  trail  toward  the  quarters.  That  even 
ing  Arden  smiled  for  the  first  time  in  twenty-four  hours 
when  he  saw  Eulalie  cuddling  cosily  into  the  mane  of  his 
very  bad  and  very  bossy  troop  horse.  The  unkillable 
revealed  a  forbearance  which  was  startling  and  unutter 
able.  A  half  hour  later  when  the  man  and  the  maiden 
walked  out  of  the  corral  toward  the  trail,  Palto  whinnied 
a  farewell  like  the  soldier  and  gentleman  he  was. 

"Adios,"  smiled  back  the  little  red  maiden,  but  Palto 
did  not  notice  since  he  had  just  unjointed  several  lengths 
of  aft  quarters,  and  landed  a  scientific  double  hook 
against  the  high-sounding  ribs  of  his  neighbor.  The  sole 
offence  of  the  neighbor  was  that  he  came  within  reach. 
Palto  always  insisted  upon  having  an  ample  share  of  the 
picket  line. 

No  Spanish  words  were  spoken  as  the  two  walked 


238  A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 

slowly  up  the  trail  toward  the  plaza  and  the  quarters; 
yet  in  the  mind  of  each  there  was  heaviness.  The  man 
was  thinking  of  the  joy  and  pain  of  human  attachments. 
In  a  glance  of  the  red  maiden's  wonderful  eyes  as  she 
stood  beside  him  in  the  falling  night,  he  had  seen  her 
passionate  soul.  He  had  never  meant  to  play  with  Eu- 
lalie.  He  knew  the  wounds  and  wickedness  of  such  a 
doing.  A  woman  in  the  Northland  had  inflicted  such 
wounds  upon  her  dog,  Palto — but  he  had  kissed  the  little 
red  maiden!  And  that  night  the  soldier  knew  that  he 
could  crush  the  heart  of  Eulalie  through  a  careless  word 
or  a  scornful  glance — even  as  his  own  had  been  crushed. 

But  what  did  he  care — bah !  He  had  lived  his  life.  He 
would  be  a  soldier  now  until  the  hateful  breathing  was 
over.  He  hoped  it  would  be  over  soon.  He  was  not  to 
blame  if  his  nature  became  a  mass  of  broken  fragments 
because  of  the  caprice  of  a  white  woman.  He  had  lived 
his  life.  He  could  not  love — no,  it  was  a  hard,  a  bitter 
thing  to  love!  Still  he  could  pity.  But  what  did  he 
care?  .  .  .  Still — he — could — pity! 

Of  what  was  the  little  red  maiden  thinking?  Of  each 
moment  which  had  been  a  rapture  until  she  saw  the  ugly 
black  face  and  the  horrid  eyes  of  Manrique,  the  ox-driver, 
glaring  at  her  from  a  shadow  as  she  walked  up  the  trail 
toward  the  plaza. 

That  night  before  the  man  and  maiden  parted,  Eulalie 
turned  her  eyes  toward  the  face  of  the  soldier,  and  her 
hands  were  upon  the  soldier's  shoulder.  Then  Trooper 
Arden  kissed  the  little  red  maiden  as  any  other  Ameri- 


A  Soldier  and  a  Man.  239 

can  would  have  done.  And  Eulalie,  in  the  greatness  of 
her  joy,  smiled;  but  it  was  so  dark  that  the  cavalryman 
did  not  see  what  caused  him  to  turn  his  eyes  away  so 
quickly  as  he  rode  with  the  main  guard  detail  that  first 
day. 

Manrique,  the  ox-driver,  skulked  in  the  darkness  and 
brooded,  and  Mad  Marie  was  noisy  up  by  the  quarters. 

After  taps  sounded,  Trooper  Arden  was  alone  with  his 
black  coffee,  his  cigarettes — and  his  thoughts.  It  was 
late  that  night  before  Manrique  shuffled  into  his  shack 
on  the  Manati  trail,  and  the  next  day  his  steers  suffered. 

In  the  evenings  which  followed,  Palto,  the  unkillable, 
welcomed  his  master  and  the  maiden  down  at  the  stables ; 
and  often  in  dark  places  the  soldier  saw  a  native  follow 
ing  him  strangely.  The  face  of  the  native  was  sinister, 
even  when  he  saluted  abjectly,  but  Arden  did  not  care 
to  understand. 

One  day  when  he  was  doing  a  guard  in  the  poverty  dis 
trict,  Eulalie  watched  him  shyly  frcm  the  door-way  of  her 
shack.  A  group  of  senoritas  strolling  up  and  down  in 
the  sunshine  paused  to  remind  Eulalie  that  her  family 
was  nameless.  The  trooper  pacing  his  post  understood 
the  Spanish  words  which  were  repeated  by  the  senoritas, 
and  he  caught  the  significance  of  the  manner  in  which 
they  were  uttered.  One  of  the  red  maidens  showed  her 
teeth,  and  then  pointed  to  the  face  of  Eulalie,  after  which 
all  the  red  maidens  laughed  loudly.  Eulalie  grew  gray 
with  shame  and  fled  from  sight.  The  trooper  understood 


240  A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 

all  these  things,  and  he  was  very  thoughtful  as  he  paced 
up  and  down. 

In  truth,  he  had  lived  his  life.  He  was  only  a  soldier 
now.  He  feared  nothing,  not  even  himself.  He  did  not 
fear  Fate.  Why  should  he  since  Fate  had  done  its  very 
worst  by  him?  .  .  .  Still  he  could  pity!  And  that 
evening  down  at  the  stables  poor  Eulalie  forgot  all  her 
woes,  because  the  soldier  smiled  often ;  and  while  he  was 
near  her  the  hunger  went  out  from  her  heart.  A  great 
and  good  thing  is  pity.  Manrique,  the  ox-driver,  knew 
it  not  as  he  watched  the  man  and  the  maiden  from  a 
shadow. 

One  morning  a  few  minutes  after  reveille,  the  troopers 
lounging  in  front  of  the  cavalry  quarters  stood  erect  and 
yelled.  The  pay-master  with  a  volunteer  guard  was  ap 
proaching  on  the  Manati  trail.  That  night  the  bunks 
were  changed  into  gaming  tables,  and  many  bottles  of 
white  rum  were  sold  at  the  cafe,  and  much  money  changed 
hands. 

Trooper  Arden  could  not  lose  that  night,  but  the  sol 
diers  who  sat  with  him  could;  and  if  it  ever  occurred 
to  them  that  Arden  was  "working  a  system,"  they  did 
not  say  so,  for  Arden  was  a  respected  man  in  the  troop. 
It  seemed  that  night  as  if  Fate  were  trying  to  palliate 
the  harshness  of  her  former  dealings  with  this  man.  His 
pile  grew  big,  but  by  his  aspect  you  would  have  imagined 
that  he  was  losing  steadily.  He  was  the  same  mystery. 

One  by  one  the  losers  made  resolutions  for  the  next 
pay-day,  and  dropped  out  of  the  game.  And  when  there 


A  Soldier  and  a  Man.  241 

was  no  more  playing,  Trooper  Arden  gathered  up  the 
deniro  Americano^  which  had  come  his  way,  handed  it 
uncounted  to  the  first  sergeant  to  keep,  and  walked  out 
of  the  quarters.  As  he  neared  the  plaza  somebody  crept 
out  of  the  shadow  and  followed  him  unsteadily — but 

silently. 

******** 

"He's  a  wizard,"  observed  one  trooper,  when  Arden 
was  no  longer  present. 

"He  has  soaked  up  a  couple  or  three  hundred  this 
night,"  said  another. 

"And  there  is  suicide  stamped  all  over  his  face,"  re 
marked  a  third. 

"He's  the  best  soldier  in  the  bunch  of  you,"  growled 
the  sergeant  of  the  squad. 

"And  he  can  make  any  two  av  ye  sleep  the  sleep  av 
an  innacint  baby-girl  wid  the  fists  av  him." 

This  last  came  from  Corporal  Carey,  and  it  came  with 
decision.  At  this  moment  the  stable  guard  dashed  into 
the  room. 

"Some  greaser  has  cut  Arden  in  the  back !  He  says 
it's  only  a  scratch,  but  he  can't  stand.  Come  on,  you  fel 
lows — grab  those  lanterns !" 

The  squad-room  was  deserted  in  a  second,  and  a  half- 
dozen  troopers  were  double-timing  it  for  the  stables. 
Arden  was  lying  upon  the  ground  with  his  head  against 
a  bale  of  hay. 

"It's  only  a  little  puncture,"  he  said,  quite  evenly. 
.  .  .  "Say,  corporal,  reach  those  cigarette  papers  from 


242  A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 

my  left-hand  pocket.  I  can't  work  this  hand.  Oh,  I'll 
roll  it  myself — gracias  muchas!  .  .  .  Give  me  a  light, 
please." 

"Tell  me  what  you  know,"  demanded  the  first  sergeant, 
striding  up. 

"The  black  boy  who  struck  me  didn't  do  a  good  job— 
I  know  that!  ...  I  was  standing  at  Palto's  head 
telling  him  a  little  love  story.  All  at  once  the  brute  sniffed 
and  struck  at  something  over  my  shoulder.  Just  at  that 
moment  I  felt  the  scratch,  and  a  native  ducked  under  the 
picket-line  and  dashed  toward  the  trail.  Palto  took  a  shot 
at  the  fellow  passing,  but  he  didn't  land " 

A  streak  of  pallor  from  the  lantern  rested  upon  the 
fallen  trooper's  face.  The  first  sergeant  had  two  other 
questions  to  ask.  He  wanted  to  know  if  Arden  was  sure 
it  was  a  native  who  knifed  him.  He  would  not  have 
thought  such  a  thing  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  pay-day 
and  the  winnings.  He  desired  to  know  also  if  Trooper 
Arden  had  seen  the  face  of  the  man  with  the  knife.  But 
the  whiteness  of  the  soldier's  features  caused  the  first 
sergeant  to  remain  silent,  and  his  thoughts  made  htm 
look  very  stern.  He  detailed  an  extra  guard  for  the 
stables,  and  ordered  four  privates  to  carry  the  wounded 
man  up  to  the  quarters.  Then  he  walked  up  and  down 
in  the  darkness. 

That  night  when  the  troop  surgeon  returned  to  the  offi 
cers'  quarters  after  attending  the  wound  of  Private  Ar 
den,  he  remarked  to  the  troop  commander: 

"That  fellow  Arden  is  positively  without  feeling.    He 


A  Soldier  and  a  Man.  243 

laid  perfectly  still  upon  his  bunk  and  puffed  away  at  a 
cigarette  while  I  took  a  foot  of  stitches  in  his  back." 

"It  isn't  a  case  of  taps,  is  it?"  the  captain  inquired. 

The  surgeon  did  not  think  so.  There  were  conditions, 
however.  He  believed  that  his  patient  knew  more  about 
what  had  happened  to  him  than  he  cared  to  tell.  But 
he  did  not  divine  the  true  reason  why  Arden  was  silent. 
All  the  commissioned  officers  knew  that  there  would  be 
no  sleep  and  much  trouble  in  the  cavalry  quarters  until 
the  native  who  cut  Arden  was  cold — that  is,  if  his  identity 
became  known.  They  knew,  too,  that  there  was  a  possi 
bility  of  a  young  war  being  started,  because  it  often  hap 
pens  that  when  troopers  are  unleashed  for  an  hour  they 
remain  restless  for  days.  You  could  not  have  made  a^ 
commissioned  officer  believe,  however,  that  Arden  was 
silent  because  he  also  understood  this  point. 

The  fortnight  following  evinced  certain  peculiarities. 
Any  hour  almost  in  the  long,  hot  days,  Trooper  Arden 
had  only  to  glance  out  of  the  big  door  of  the  quarters 
to  see  a  face,  the  expression  of  which  was  a  mute  prayer 
that  he  would  live.  Eulalie,  the  little  red  maiden,  was 
as  near  his  side  as  she  dared  to  be.  The  agony  of  her 
heart  was  reflected  in  the  eyes  that  peered  into  the  cav 
alry  quarters — peered  hungrily,  hopelessly,  for  the  glance 
of  the  soldier  who  had  become  her  God,  whose  breath  was 
her  morning  and  her  night,  whose  smile  was  her  heaven ! 

Had  you  driven  her  away  from  the  door-way  of  the 
American  garrison,  Eulalie  would  have  died — after  one 
thing  was  accomplished.  The  soldiers  laughed  at  her; 


244  A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 

she  did  not  hear  them.  The  other  red  maidens  scoffed 
at  her;  Eulalie  heeded  them  not.  A  native  fruit  vender 
standing  all  day  at  the  corner  of  the  plaza  saw  that  she 
ate  nothing.  He  tossed  a  couple  of  bananas  in  her  direc 
tion.  She  carried  the  fruit  for  hours  in  her  hand,  not 
knowing  that  it  was  there.  She  lived  for  nothing  save 
for  the  smile  of  her  soldier.  She  remembered  nothing 
save  that  he  had  kissed  her! 

And  all  the  while  Trooper  Arden  suffered  (though 
you  would  have  to  see  his  wound  to  know  it),  and  he 
watched  the  little  red  maiden  and  rolled  cigarettes  with 
his  good  hand  and  wondered.  In  truth,  life  held  no  joy 
for  him.  Sometimes  he  felt  sorry  that  Palto,  the  white- 
faced,  had  spoiled  the  work  of  the  knife.  He  could  not 
help  it,  if  it  were  his  nature  to  despair  silently,  smilingly, 
because  he  was  not  the  light  of  one  white  woman's  eyes. 
No,  he  could  not  help  that,  but  he  could  see  every  minute 
in  the  day  a  woman's  soul  through  the  eyes  that  watched 
him  from  the  door-way  of  the  garrison.  Trooper  Arden 
could  see  a  woman's  soul  with  all  its  ardor,  hope,  desire 
and  despair.  He  could  not  love — no,  because  to  him  the 
past  was  eternal,  since  it  held  a  deathless  memory.  .  .  . 
Still,  he  could  pity! 

And  so  days  grew  and  became  a  part  of  that  which  is 
gone ;  and  in  none  of  them  was  Manrique,  the  ox-driver, 
seen  in  the  Ciales  cafe  or  in  the  town ;  but  many  times 
the  Manati  torrent  laved  the  blood  from  the  flanks  of  his 
steers  as  they  breasted  the  fords.  And  all  the  while  Eu 
lalie  watched  her  soldier  from  the  door-way. 


A  Soldier  and  a  Man.  245 

At  last  the  night  came  when  Trooper  Arden  muttered 
many  strange  things  and  forgot  to  smoke.  The  troop 
surgeon  looked  at  the  soldier's  wound,  and  in  the  same 
breath  he  cursed  the  tropics.  He  wondered  what  the 
patient  meant  in  mumbling  continually  about  a  dog  whose 
name  was  "Palto,"  but  the  soldiers  who  stood  near 
thought  that  their  fellow  was  dreaming  of  his  white-faced 
troop  horse. 

******** 

If  you  ever  get  a  bad  cut  while  you  are  in  the  tropics, 
set  your  face  toward  the  north  at  once.  If  you  are  a  sol 
dier,  and  your  troop  commander  does  not  advise  you  to 
take  a  furlough,  he  is  either  heartless  or  inexperienced. 
Flesh  wounds  do  not  heal  on  white  men  or  horses  in  the 
tropics.  All  troop  commanders  and  surgeons  know  this 
now,  but  they  didn't  know  it  in  Arden's  outfit  until  the 
night  that  the  patient  mumbled  incoherently  and  ceased 
smoking  cigarettes.  And  when  the  bit  of  knowledge  was 
forcibly  thrust  upon  the  troop  surgeon,  he  cursed  the 
tropics,  instead  of  himself.  At  the  same  time,  he  did 
not  think  that  the  patient  was  in  a  fit  condition  to  be 
moved  now. 

The  next  morning  Trooper  Arden  opened  his  eyes,  and 
wondered  how  he  had  happened  to  sleep  so  long.  He 
would  have  moved  his  head,  but  there  was  something 
wrong  with  the  muscles  of  his  neck.  He  rolled  a  cigar 
ette  with  his  right  hand,  and  the  room  orderly  struck  a 
match  for  him.  The  troop  surgeon  entered  at  this  mo 
ment. 


246  A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  up  north  ?"  the  doctor  asked. 

Arden  spoke  no  word  for  several  seconds.  Then  he 
turned  his  eyes  toward  the  door-way.  He  saw  Eulalie, 
the  little  red  maiden.  He  saw,  too,  the  agony  and  the 
prayer  which  was  in  her  great,  dark,  Spanish  eyes.  Then 
he  said  to  the  troop  surgeon : 

"I  don't  know  of  any  one  who  is  pining  for  me  back 
in  the  States.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't  want  to  go — up 
north!" 

An  hour  later  the  first  sergeant  entered  the  squad-room. 
Arden  eyed  him  thoughtfully  for  a  moment  and  then  said : 

"I  would  be  very  glad,  sergeant,  if  you  would  give 
me  that  bunch  of  money  that  I  left  with  you  the  other 
night." 

The  non-commissioned  officer  brought  him  the  win 
nings. 

"Thank  you,  sergeant,"  Arden  resumed.  "Could  I  see 
the  chaplain  this  morning?" 

Eulalie  was  at  the  door-way,  and  a  few  minutes  after 
ward  the  godly  man  of  the  regiment  was  brought  to  the 
wounded  trooper's  bedside.  For  a  time  he  listened  to 
low-spoken  words  from  the  man  in  the  bunk,  after  which 
Eulalie  was  also  brought  to  the  trooper's  bedside.  And 
gradually  there  came  to  her  the  mighty  realization  that 
she  was  no  longer  nameless,  for  did  not  the  interpreter 
tell  her  so  in  her  own  tongue?  And  she  was  allowed  to 
kiss  the  white  soldier,  but  why — why  was  this  money — 
this  fortune  placed  in  her  hands  by  the  chaplain? 
She  would  die  for  the  smiles  of  the  white  soldier — but 


A  Soldier  and  a  Man.  247 

his  money — his  name  .  .  .  The  great,  dark  eyes  of 
the  red  maiden  were  stretched  wide  apart,  and  the  prayer 
was  still  in  them ! 

Trooper  Arden  seemed  very  weary.  He  was  not  to 
blame  because  his  nature  could  do  nothing  but  pity  now. 
He  had  not  meant  to  trifle  with  Eulalie.  He  knew  the 
human  harshness  of  that — ah,  so  well  he  knew  it!  But 
he  had  kissed  the  little  red  maiden.  It  was  only  one  of 
the  mistakes  of  which  his  life  was  made.  He  sighed, 
for  he  was  very  weary.  He  asked  a  trooper  near  him 
for  a  cigarette,  because  Eulalie  was  holding  fast  to  the 
one  hand  which  he  could  use.  He  was  glad  that  he  could 
even  pity! 

And  this  was  the  man  whom  a  woman  of  the  Northland 
had  called  Palto,  and  sent  away  to  be  a  soldier. 

On  a  night  not  long  afterward  Eulalie,  the  little  red 
maiden,  was  seen  passing  by  the  cavalry  quarters  at 
Ciales.  Mad  Marie  was  wailing  mournfully  in  the  street, 
and  her  child  was  silent  in  her  arms.  In  one  of  the  squad- 
rooms  Corporal  Carey  was  telling  the  other  troopers 
what  a  great  fellow  Trooper  Arden  had  been.  Eulalie 
passed  by  a  group  of  senoritas  in  the  plaza.  They  no 
longer  called  her  nameless. 

Down  at  the  stables  Palto,  the  unkillable,  whinnied  a 
greeting  to  the  little  red  maiden  as  she  approached,  and 
he  held  his  head  very  still  when  Eulalie  buried  her  face 
in  his  mane.  Taps  sounded  up  in  the  quarters,  and  still 
the  form  stood  close  to  the  white  face  of  the  troop  horse. 
After  the  stable  guard  was  relieved  at  midnight,  Eulalie 


248  A  Soldier  and  a  Man. 

walked  stealthily  down  the  Manati  trail  toward  the  shack 
of  Manrique,  the  ox-driver. 

Moment  after  moment  passed  as  she  listened  in  the 
darkness  by  the  door-way.  And  at  last  she  crept  in  as 
silently  as  her  shadow  on  the  threshold — as  silently  as 
fell  the  starbeams,  which  were  everywhere ! 

And  the  next  day,  and  in  the  days  which  followed,  the 
steers  of  Manrique,  the  driver,  browsed  unyoked  on  the 
Porto  Rican  hills  and  fattened. 


THE  END. 


r 


NONA/     READV 

| 


THE  LIFE  OF  OUR  GREAT 
AMERICAN  NAVAL  HERO, 


RRICE    ONE    DOLLAR. 


AT  ALL  BOOKSELLERS,  OR  BY  MAIL,  POSTPAID,  FROM  THE  PUBLISHERS, 

STREET  &  SMITH,  Publishers 

232  to  238  William  St.,  New 


ADMIRAL  GEORGE  DEWEY. 


BY   WILL   M.   CLEMENS, 

Author  of  "  Theodore  Roosevelt  the  American,  His  Life  and  Work" 
|)  "A  Ken  of  Kipling"  "  The  Depew  Story  Book,"  etc. 

\ 

j  12mo.    19©    pp. 

Elegantly  bound  in  the  most  approved  modern  style  in  fine  cloth, 
with  gold  top  and  original  cover  designs,  with  eleven  full-page 
illustrations. 

Probably  the  most  popular  man  in  the  world  to-day  is  Admiral 
George  Dewey.  He  is  the  man  of  the  hour— the  one  whom  every 
body  wishes  to  know  about.  The  author  has  given  us  a  most  ex-  4 
cellent  and  entertaining  book,  which  will  prove  a  fitting  ornament  4 
and  valuable  acquisition  to  any  home  in  the  land.  We  can  best  give  ^ 
an  idea  of  the  scope  of  this  work  by  mentioning  the  titles  of  the  ^ 
various  chapters,  which  are  as  follows :  "  The  Dewey  Ancestry," 
•'The  Boy  George,"  "At  the  Naval  Academy,"  "The  Young  Lieu 
tenant,"  "The  Battle  of  Port  Hudson,"  "In  the  Years  of  Peace," 
"  Life  in  "Washington,"  "The  Battle  of  Manila  Bay,"  "The  Official 
Records,"  "Dewey  the  Hero,"  "After  the  Battle,"  "Days  of 
Vigilance,"  "The  Fall  of  Manila,"  "Fighting  the  Insurgents,11' 
"Admiral  of  the  Navy."  Mr.  Clemens  has  attained  a  deserved 
reputation  as  an  able  and  interesting  writer,  and  this  his  latest  work 
is  conceded  to  be  one  of  his  very  best. 


USHERS,  4 

r  York. 
VWw5 


OUR  NEW  POSSESSIONS 


CUBA 


PORTO  RICO 


A  new  empire  has  been  opened  for  the  industrial  con 
quest  of  American  enterprise — a  new  region  where  the 
man  with  brains  or  brawn  may  secure  for  himself  a 
fortune  by  honest  industry.  What  has  been  the  story 
of  Spanish  misrule  and  oppression  which 
has  kept  Cuba  and  Porto  Rico  from  as 
suming  their  rightful  positions  in  the 
commerce  of  the  world?  What  were  the  causes  that 
led  to  the  recent  war  ?  What  is  the  present  condition 
of  these  fertile  isles  ?  What  is  the  opportunity  for 
American  enterprise  and  future  development  thus 

opened  up  to  us  ?  What 
is  the  mineral  wealth  of 
Cuba  and  Porto  Rico,  and 
where  does  it  lie  ?  What  are  the  agricultural  possibili 
ties  ?  The  commercial  ?  These  and  many  other  sub 
jects  of  interest  are  exhaustively  considered  in 

"Tie  Past,  Present  aui  Future  of  Cuba  and  Porto  Rico," 

by  A.  D.  HALL,  a  work  which  has  been  prepared  with 
special  care  and  exhaustive  research.  Mr.  Hall  does 
not  write  in  a  dry  fashion,  nor  deal  with  statistics  alone. 
He  has  presented  a  vital  picture  of  the  situation,  in  a 
terse  and  vigorous  stylo  that  is  at  once  interesting  and 
complete.  Elegantly  bound,  with  gilt  top,  English  silk 
cloth,  white  laid  paper,  a  valuable  addition  to  any  library, 
and  embellished  with  the  latest  and  most  accurate  maps 
of  Cuba  and  Porto  Rico. 

RRICE    ONE     DOLLAR. 


STREET  &  SMITH,  Publishers, 

232-238  William  Street, 

NEW   YORK. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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